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LOS  ANGELES 


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turn 


AND 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


LURANIA  A.  H.  MUNDAY. 


They  tell  Tmt  dreams — a  lonely  spirit's  dreams— 
Yet  ever  through  their  fleeting  imagery 
Wanders  a  vein  of  melancholy  love, 
An  aimless  thought  of  home  : — as  in  the  song 
Of  the  caged  sky-lark  ye  may  deem  there  dwells 
A  passionate  memory  of  blue  skies  and  flowers, 
And  living  streams — far  off! — MRS- 


CINCINNATI: 

APPLEGATE  &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS,  43  MAIN  STREET.          > 
1862. 


Entered  according  to  the  act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1857, 

Br  L.  A.  H.  MUNDAY, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for 
the  District  of  Missouri. 


TS 


PREFACE. 

/t  is  not  the  mode — literary — to  place  a  work  before 
the  public  without  a  few  prefatory  remarks,  either 
explanatory  or  apologetical,  but  feeling  conscious  that 
these  would  avail  nothing,  I  have  none  to  offer. 

To  those  disposed  to  destroy  the  fair  "  net-work  " 
of  the  mind's  temple  I  have  no  response.  With  the 
generous  mind  no  extenuating  voice  is  needed  to  plead 
for  those  who  toil  and  strive  after  all  that  is  beautiful, 
good  and  true. 

Not  wishing  to  presume  above  its  merits,  I  send 
forth  the  present  volume,  as  a  bird  with  untried  wings, 
to  the  vast  world  of  mind,  and  if,  in  the  pure  realm  of 
thought,  there  are  any  to  whom  its  wild  warblings 
afford  one  draught  of  intellectual  pleasure,  or  from  the 
stem  realities  of  life  beguile  a  tedious  hour — if,  in  its 
untutored  songs,  there  is  any  thing  worthy  the  accept 
ance  and  approbation  of  the  refined  and  good,  or  waken 
in  pure  minds  high  unities  of  thought,  and  soul,  my 
purpose  is  achieved,  my  object  won. 

L.  A.  H.  MUNDAY. 


762954 


MEMOIRS  OF  MRS.  L.  A.  H.  MUNDAY. 


LURANIA  A.  H.  MUNDAY  was  born  April  19th,  1828, 
in  the  city  of  Cincinnati.  Her  father,  who  was  engaged 
in  the  mercantile  business,  at  the  time  of  her  birth, 
shortly  after  that  period,  moved  to  a  small  country 
place,  located  near  Mason,  Warren  County,  Ohio, 
where  the  subject  of  these  brief  memoirs  spent  most 
of  her  childhood's  days. 

Being  of  a  sensitive  and  shrinking  disposition,  she 
attended  the  District  School  but  seldom,  but  grew  up 
in  quiet  and  seclusion,  apart  from  the  companionship 
of  children,  except  that  of  her  brothers,  who  were 
younger  than  herself,  under  the  instruction  of  her  moth 
er.  LURANIA  was  a  thoughtful,  dreamy  child,  who 
chose  the  most  solitary  nooks  along  the  streams  for  her 
play-ground,  and  the  bright  blue  violets  for  her  play 
mates,  while  again  she  would  apostrophise  the  stars  in 
childish  wonder,  questioning  what  they  were,  and 
what  their  final  destiny. 

Purity  in  language,  sentiment  and  manners,  were 
her  peculiar  characteristics,  from  her  earliest  childhood, 
hence  the  repugnance  and  utter  disgust,  which  she  felt 
when  brought  in  contact  with  coarseness  and  vulgarity, 
which  was  rendered  doubly  painful  from  the  fact  that 
circumstances  q^r  which  she  had  no  control,  made  it 
impossible  to  cho'ose  such  society  as  would  have  been 
congenial  to  her  ardent  mind,  such  as  would  have  fed 
and  nourished  her  hungry  intellect,  longing  for  a  full 
development  of  the  powers  of  her  mind — longing  to 
arrive  at  all  truth.  She  had  access  to  few  books,  hence 
her  acquirements  in  literary  knowledge  were  very  lim- 


ited,  up  to  the  age  of  sixteen;  but  her  enthusiastic 
love  of  all  that  was  truly  great  and  noble  in  weak 
humanity — of  all  that  was  sublime  and  beautiful  in 
nature,  clearly  evinced  that  there  was  a  volume  of 
inwritten  poetry  in  her  soul. 

At  the  age  of  sixteen  she  attended  an  academy 

located  at  O ,  Ohio,  taught  by  a  lady  who  was 

a  tolerably  good  scholar,  but  destitute  of  taste,  as  well 
as  some  other  qualifications  essential  to  a  good  teacher. 
Up  to  this  period  no  line  of  jingling  rhyme  ever  saw 
the  light,  but  the  usual  routine  of  hard,  dry  studies, 
such  as  are  said  to  expand  and  strengthen  the  mind, 
were  taken  up  by  her  and  pursued  with  the  most 
unwavering  perseverance ;  she  being  resolved  not  to 
be  behind  her  class,  notwithstanding  all  her  previous 
disadvantages. 

Examination  day  came  at  length,  a  day  of  much 
anxiety  and  disappointment  to  some,  of  triumph  and 
success  to  others.  Lurania  had  now  found  a  medium 
through  which  she  would  pour  out  in  one  full  gushing 
torrent  all  the  enthusiasm  of  her  mind.  She  read,  or 
rather  recited  before  a  large  audience,  her  "  compo 
sition,"  which,  notwithstanding  the  most  positive 
interdiction  of  the  teachers  to  the  contrary,  was  re 
ceived  with  the  most  gratifying  applause.  Envy  and 
jealousy  were  now  fairly  set  to  work.  It  was  a 
success  which  some  illiberal  and  narrow  minded  spirits 
never  forgave,  especially  as  she  possessed,  at  that  time, 
a  face  and  figure  of  more  than  common  attraction. 

Occasionally  short  pieces  of  poetry  began  to  occupy 
the  poet's  corner  in  the  country  newspapers,  over  the 
signature  of"  LURANIA,"  while  to  improve  her  slender 
finances,  she  left  the  Academy  and  became  a  school 
teacher.  By  many  Lurania  was  thought  to  be  a 
genius,  and  truly  has  she  paid  the  bitter  penalty ;  for 


VI 

all  that  the  most  malicious  detraction  could  fabricate, 
has  been  measured  out  to  her,  in  such  quality  and 
quantity,  that  for  a  time  she  was  quite  overwhelmed 
with  grief  and  despair.  Her  health  gave  way,  and 
accompanied  by  some  relatives  she  sought  in  the  genial 
atmosphere  of  the  South,  that  peace  of  mind  and  that 
restoration  of  health  which  she  had  so  cruelly  and 
unjustly  lost.  Upon  her  return  all  her  former  perse 
cutions  were  again  renewed ;  but  still  without  any 
particular  aim,  she  continued  to  warble  forth  her  un 
pretending  lays,  like  some  lone  bird,  whose  natural 
language  is  that  of  song. 

With  the  most  limited  means  she  had  no  other 
resources  but  that  of  the  ever-living  fountains  of  her 
own  heart,  from  whence  to  draw  those  beautiful  images 
of  all  that  is  lovely,  pure  and  good. 

She  eventually  married  Dr.  VV.  B.  Munday,  a  gentle 
man  of  fine  feelings,  and  one  who  fully  appreciated  all 
her  worth.  Notwithstanding  many  vile  aspersions  he 
proved  to  be  an  indulgent  husband,  and  a  kind  father, 
while  those  who  knew  him  best,  loved  him  most.  He 
being  a  member  of  the  Masonic  fraternity,  Mrs. 
Munday  became  acquainted  with  the  principles  of  the 
"  Mystic  Brotherhood" — an  order  which  claims  to  be 
founded  upon  Truth  and  Virtue,  and  whose  leading 
star  is  Philanthrophy.  The  mission  of  Masonry  struck 
with  peculiar  force  her  enthusiastic  mind — hence  the 
production  of  "  ACACIAN  LYRICS,"  a  part  of  the  pre 
sent  volume. 

At  the  expiration  of  eight  years,  Dr.  Munday  died, 
leaving  her  with  a  broken  constitution,  and  but  illy 
calculated  to  struggle  with  the  storms  of  life  In  he"r 
sad  bereavement  she  returned  to  her  father's  house,  and 
the  family  shortly  after  moved  to  the  State  of  Illinois, 
where  they  are  quietly  pursuing  the  business  of  farming. 


ACACIAN  LYRICS. 

JERUSALEM. 

By  the  rivers  of  Babylon  there  we  sat  down  ;  yea,  we  "wept 
when  we  remembered  Zion — Bible. 

City  of  palms,  of  palaces  and  fountains, 
Thou  sit's  a  queen  among  thy  sacred  hills, 
Begirt  as  by  a  tiara  of  mountains, 
Thy  ancient  glory  now  my  vision  fills  ; 
As  oft  the  mind's  swift  rivers  backward  roll, 
To  glass  thine  image  on  their  thousand  rills ; 
Thou  shrine  of  hope — the  pilgrim's  sacred  goal, 
Blest  Mecca  of  the  mind,  and  city  of  the  soul. 

Thy  brazen  gates,  and  consecrated  fanes, 
Thy  many  string'd  and  silvery  sounding  lyres, 
Attuned  alone  to  heaven's  divinest  strains, 
Where  erst  the  minstrel-king  awoke  the  wires, 
\Jntil  the  soul  seem'd  fus'd  in  hallow'd  fires, 
Through  time's  dim  vistas  and  its  shadows  gray, 
Are  brought  to  view  as  over  dead  empires, 
Mouldering  kingdoms,  dust  and  pale  decay, 
Swift  fancy's  chariot  speeds  his  thought-illumined  way. 
(7) 


8  MRS.  MONDAY'S  POEMS. 

Pride  of  the  earth,  and  chosen  of  God  wert  thou, 
Enrobed  in  matchless  strength  and  mystery, 
A  wondrous  beauty  crown'd  thy  peerless  brow, 
While  joy  and  light  divine  abode  with  thee  ; 
And  when  thy  children  in  captivity 
Were  borne,  they  bowed  in  desolation, 
And  many  a  tearful  glance  was  turned  on  thee, 
While  cries  of  woe,  wailing  and  lamentation 
In  prayer  went  up  by  the  dark  streams  of  Babylon. 

And  now  o'er  Esdralon's  palmy  plain, 
Frdm  Beitnumba's  height  I  can  behold, 
Where  Europe's  hosts  through  blood  and  fiery  rain, 
With  holy  zeal  in  contests  came  of  old  ; 
Against  the  fierce  Saladin's  armies  bold, 
With  trump  and  clarion  strains  and  banners  proud ; 
While  swift  the  Paynim's  arm'd  chariot  roll'd, 
Through  many  a  battle  blast  and  red  war-cloud, 
Whose  surges  deep  swept  on  in  thunders  long  and  loud. 

And  there  with  flying  steed  and  glittering  shield, 
A  Christian  warrior  clad  in  hauberk  bright,  < 
Sped  onward  o'er  the  dark  ensanguin'd  field, 
Whose  stalwart  form  absorb'd  the  startled  sight ; 
Oh  !  know  ye  not  that  lion-hearted  knight — 
Great  Plantagenet's  brave  and  royal  scion, — 
Who  came  with  mace  of  arms  and  sword  to  fight, 
For  Jesus  and  the  cross  and  holy  Zion, 
Who  was  in  peace  a  dove,  in  war  an  angry  lion  ? 


ACACIAN    LYRICS.  9 

Where  dwelt  sweet  peace  among  the  cedarn  shades, 
E'er  sound  of  trump  was  heard  or  battle  glave, 
My  fancy  turns,  when  Salem's  beauteous  maids, 
In  rippling  Kedron's  chaste  and  limpid  wave, 
Came  down  of  old  their  snowy  feet  to  lave  ; 
As  night  beams   fall  through  groves   of  shadowy 

trees, 

So  softly  bright  the  glance  their  dark  eyes  gave, 
Their  midnight  tresses  floating  on  the  breeze, 
Which  oft  in  waving  whispers  came  from  Syrian  seas. 

Now  I  behold  Gethsemene's  fair  bowers — 
A  light  perfume  floats  through  the  mellow  gloom, 
A.midst  whose  dewy  shades  like  soft  snow  show'rs, 
Fall  down  the  olive's  wealth  of  virgin  bloom  ; 
Where  once  to  ransom  us  from  certain  doom, 
Where  shed  those  hallowed  tears — those  drops  of 

woe, 

A  pledge  of  promised  joy  beyond  the  tomb, 
Where  Zion,  free,  shall  dread  no  conquering  foe, 
And  through  supernal  groves  life's  endless  rivers  flow. 

And  distant  through  the  warm  air  shimmering, 
Thy  massive  walls  and  towers  of  strength ^arise, 
Bright  spires  and  lofty  turretts  glimmering  ; 
While  from  the  "  Orient  "  robed  in  Tyrean  dyes, 
A  queenly  temple  fills  my  wondering  eyes, 
Moriah's  mystic  fane,  whose  burnished  dome, 
Looms  up  as  if  to  mock  the  bowing  skies, 


10  MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEMS. 

From  many  lands  where  Christian  warriors  come, 
There  tears  and  vows  to  blend  above  the  holy  tomb. 

And  now,  high  poised  on  fancy's  soaring  wings, 
I  fain  would  linger  o'er  the  temple's  shrine  : 
A  heavenly  radiance  round  about  thee  clings, 
As  mirror'd  on  my  heart  thy.  splendors  shine — 
Thy  beauty  wraps  my  soul,  0  !  fane  divine, 
Where  once  of  old  in  silken  bonds,  three  sons  of 

light, 

With  purpose  high  and  mystic  word  and  sign, 
Together  met,  amid  thy  wonders  bright, 
That  shone  like  flashing  stars  upon  the  brows  of  night 

But  now  a  change  comes  o'er  my  spirit's  vision, 
And  Judah's  pristine  glories  proudly  bright — 
So  strangely  fair  they  almost  seem'd  elysian — 
Like  rainbow  dreams  are  sweeping  out  of  sight ; 
Thy  palm  crown 'd  hills  and  vales  are  scorched  with 

blight, 

Thy  marble  fountains  bound  with  burning  chains  ; 
A  sable  veil  dark  as  the  wings  of  night, 
Hangs  like  a  funeral  pall  above  thy  plains, 
Thy  ivy  mantled  walls  and  desecrated  fanes. 

No  arch  triumphal  now  is  borne  aloft ; 
No  classic  porticoes  exclude  the  ray 
Of  Sol's  hot  radiance  ;  no  lute-notes  soft, 
Of  Hebrew  maid,  as  in  the  elder  day 


ACACIAN   LYRICS.  H 

Blent  with  the  wind's  low  voices  float  away, 
Thy  stately  pageantries  have  vanish 'd  all — 
A  mournful  glory  wraps  thee  in  decay,  . 

While  from  the  turkman's  parapetted  wall, 
Is  heard  afar  the  "loud  muezzin's  solemn  call." 

Alas  !  for  thee,  my  spirit  inly  weeps, 
O,  Jerusalem  !  a  tearless  sorrow  reigns 
In  the  far  holy  of  my  bosom's  deeps ; 
My  grieving  lyre  in  solemn  pean-strains 
Awakes  for  thee,  and  mournfully  complains. 
Yet  ever  floating  through  my  yearning  dreams, 
Bright  glimpses  come  from  heaven's  celestial  plains, 
Where  the  redem'd  shall  quaff  eternal  stream?,; 
And   ransom'd  Zion   crown'd  with  light  triumphant 
beams. 


MASONIC    SONG. 

Sound  the  full  chorus  in  anthems  of  praise, 
To  Him  the  Grand  Master,  the  "  ancient  of  days," 
Whose  realm  is  all  space,  and  whose  temple  the  sky, 
Whose  portals  are  guarded  by  angels  on  high  ; 
Where  through  the  wide  arching  in  beauty  around, 
upheaving  pillars  of  wisdom  profound ; 


12  MRS.    MUNDAY  S    POEMS. 

Begirt  with  his  strength — in  glory  and  might, 
He  reigns  the  great  fountain  of  Spirit  and  Light. 

Lo !  an  angel  of  love  our  bleak  world  has  bless'd ; 
Be  joyful  each  heart,  for  our  heavenly  guest 
With  purpose  most  holy  and  mission  sublime, 
Hath  lived  through  the  wrecks  and  the  tempests  of 

time — 

Hath  shed  through  the  gloom  of  our  passion-rent  way, 
Her  soft  tears  of  mercy  like  showers  of  May ; 
And  deep  is  the  light  of  her  radient  eyes, 
As  the  beams  of  Hesperus  in  orient  skies. 

« 

Like  the  sound  of  a  flute  to  the  slumberer's  ear, 
Or  the  music  of  harps  from  some  hallow'd  sphere, 
Doth  the  tones  of  her  voice  in  soft  euphonies  fall, 
On  the  sorrowing  heart  through  the  desolate  hall. 
From  the  pale  brow  of  pain  the  death-dews  away, 
She  hath  brush'd  with  her  pinions,  bright  as  the  day : 
While  the  sad  orphan  babes,  to  soothe  and  to  bless, 
She  hath  lull'd  to  sweet  dreams  in  her  gentle  caress. 

She  hath  a  fair  chaplet  of  emblems,  entwin'd 

With  roses  and  lillies  and  cassias  combined,  • 

For  the  brows  of  our  brethren,  that  fadeless  shall  bloom, 

In  the  Lodge  of  the  Spirit  beyond  the  dark  tomb  ; 

iVhere  the  roses  of  love  forever  wax  bright, 

And  the  lilies  of  purity  stainlessly  white  j 


ACACIAN    LYRICS.  13 

Where   from   evergreen  bowers   the   "faithful"   are 

crown'd, 
And  cassias  immortal  bloom  ever  around. 


THE  THREE  FRIENDS  AND  THE  JEWEL. 

"  The  veil  of  the  temple  is  rent,  the  builder  is  smitten,  and 
we  are  raised  from  the  tomb  of  transgression." 

At  length,  through  time's  expanded  sphere, 

Fair  science  speeds  her  way ; 
And  warm'd  by  truth's  refulgence  clear, 

Reflects  the  kindred  ray. 
A  second  fabric's  towering  height, 

Proclaims  the  sign  restor'd  ; 
From  whose  foundation  brought  to  light, 

Js  drawn  the  mystic  word. — Masonic  Ode. 

In  Salem's  palmy  city  dwelt, 

Far  back  in  the  olden  time, 
Three  friends,  who,  round  one  alter  knelt, 

Of  mystic  faith  sublime. 
A  spirit  net-work  o'er  them  hung, 

Of  fellowship  and  love  ; 
And  sweet  their  hearts  according  tones, 

As  choral  hymns  above. 

When  soft  beneath  a  crimson  flood, 


14  MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEMS. 

The  lesser  lights  had  set ; 
In  silken  bonds  of  brotherhood, 

Those  friends  in  silence  met. 
Within  a  secret  chamber  high, 

Of  Zion's  hallow'd  fane  ; 
Where  flashed  along  the  guilded  walls, 

Bright  rays  like  golden  rain. 

There,  lock'd  within  a  casket  fair, 

A  priceless  jewel  lay, 
Brighter  than  Neptune's  burning  gems, 

Or  morning's  rosy  ray. 
And  each  possess'd  the  power  to  gaze, 

Upon  that  jewel's  light  5 
Serene  and  fair  its  lucid  rays, 

As  starry  eyes  of  night. 

And  thus  the  mystic  brothers  spoke, 

As  taught  by  lips  divine ; 
Not  one  alone  of  us  shall  take, 

The  treasure  from  its  shrine ; 
But  met  together,  then  ,  oh !  then, 

The  casket's  hidden  store, 
Shall  bless  our  yearning  sight  again, 

Its  wonted  radiance  pour. 

'Twas  thus  they  parted — friend  with  friend, 
With  many  a  holy  sign, 


ACACIAN    LYRICS.  15 

As  low  in  solemn  prayer  they  bent, 

Around  the  sacred  shrine. 
Time's  heavy  throb  kept  slowly  on, 

And  brought  the  trysting  hours  ; 
But  one  had  pass'd  the  shad'wy  vale, 

To  rest  in  Eden  bowers. 

And  in  that  consecrated  place, 

They  wistful  gazed  around : 
Yet  saw  they  not  that  one  kind  face, 

Through  all  the  still  profound. 
Alas  !  the  silver  chord  was  loos'd, 

And  seal'd  the  sacred  lore ; 
While  locked  from  sight  the  glowing  gem, 

Must  lie  forever  more  ! 

Saids't  thou  forever  more  ?     Ah !  no, 

For  through  our  being's  night, 
The  peerless  gem  doth  softly  shed, 

Its  floods  of  spirit  light, 
And  thus  by  hope  and  faith  in  Him, 

Who  wept  and  died  to  save, 
Our  ransom'd  souls  will  bask  in  light, 

And  triumph  o'er  the  grave. 


16  MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEMS. 


STANZAS   FOR  THE    YEAR. 

"  Now  I  beseech  you,  brethren,  by  the  name  of  our  Lord 
Jesus  Christ,  that  ye  all  speak  the  same  thing,  and  that  there  be 
no  divisions  among  you ;  but  that  ye  all  be  perfectly  joined 
together  in  the  same  mind,  and  in  the  same  judgment." — Cor*. 
1  Chap.  10  verse. 

"  According  to  the  grace  of  God  which  is  given  unto  me,  as  a 
wise  master  builder,  I  have  laid  the  foundation,  and  another 
buildeth  thereon.  But  let  every  man  take  heed  how  he  build- 
eth  thereupon. — Cor.  3d  Chap.  10  verse. 

Time  !  eldest  born  of  elder  day, 

The  silent  parent  of  decay ; 
In  the  urn  of  the  past,  he  has  consigned, 
With  the  centuries  old  which  he  leaves  behind, 
The  year  that's  past  away. 

Hail,  all  hail !  the  New  Year 's  come, 

Strike  the  harp  and  sound  the  drum ; 

Lo  !  we're  hastening  to  the  time, 

Of  those  greetings  most  sublime, 
In  the  great  millenium.    / 

Awake  !  and  work  while  yet  'tis  day, 
The  night  soon  comes,  make  no  delay ; 
Earth's  weeping  ones — His  precious  poor, 
Have  claims  upon  your  love — your  store, 

Go  smooth  their  thorny  way. 
"  Brothers  of  the  mystic  tie," 


ACACIAN    LYRICS.  17 

Hast  thou  heard  the  orphan's  cry  ? — 
To  the  sick  hast  given  relief? 
Hast  thou  stay'd  the  widow's  grief? 

And  check'd  the  mourner's  sigh  ? 

Say — what  the  work  thy  hands  have  sought, 
Tell,  what  the  joys  thy  deeds  have  brought  ? 

O'er  the  old  year's  varied  track, 

Cast  thy  mental  vision  back — 
Hast  in  the  quarry  wrought  ? 

Brother,  of  the  social  band, 

O'er  the  sea  in  every  land, 

Tell  us  if  in  love  thou  hast, 

Sought  to  shed  those  glories  vast, 
Of  Him  the  Master  Grand  ? 

Know'st  thou  of  our  faith  sublime 

We  brethren  have  in  every  clime, 

Who  feel  the  same  good  shepherd's  care — • 

Alike  his  love  and  beauty  share 

Through  all  life's  trial-time  ? 
Then  strive  in  harmony  to  dwell, 
And  every  stormy  passion  quell, 
Till  through  our  Father's  heavenly  grace, 
We  reach  that  bless'd,  most  holy  place 
Where  ceaseless  anthems  swell. 
Though  darkly  now,  in  yon  bright  sky 
We'll  see  each  other  eye  to  eye ; 


18  MRS.  MUNDAT'S  POEMS. 

Our  work  of  love  and  duty  done, 
And  passed  the  "  veils  " — acceptance  won, 
In  that  Grand  Lodge  on  High. 


LINES 

On  the  death  of  AUSTIN  W.  MORRIS,  Esq.,  who  died  at  his  resi 
dence  in  Indianopolis,  June  20, 1851,  and  who  was,  at  the  time 
of  his  decease,  and  for  some  years  previously,  Grand  Secretary 
of  the  Grand  Masonic  Lodge  of  the  State  of  Indiana. 

Speak  low  the  place  is  holy  to  the  breath, 
Of  awful  harmonies,  of  whispered  prayer  ; 
Tread  lightly,  for  the  sanctity  of  death, 
Broods  with  a  voiceless  influence  on  the  air, 
Stern,  yet  serene,  a  reconciling  spell, 
Each  troubled  billow  of  the  soul  to  quell. 

Mrs.  Hemans. 

There's  mourning  in  our  mystic  hall, 

For  there's  a  vacant  place — 
A  missing  voice — a  proud  foot  fall, 

And  kind  familiar  face, 
Far  from  our  transient  sphere  away, 
Hath  pass'd  to  climes  of  endless  day. 


Silence  and  gloom  are  brooding  round 
In  fitful  shadows  pale  ; 


ACACIAN    LYRICS.  19 

And  o'er  our  hearts  a  grief  profound, 

Sits  like  a  sable  veil  : 
The  eyes  of  light  are  dim  with  woe, 
The  voice  of  joy  suppressed  and  low. 

From  out  the  firmament  of  thought, 

A  spirit  star  hath  fled  ; 
A  column  strong  with  beauty  fraught; 

Hath  fall'n  among  the  dead  ; 
A  sacred  taper  hath  expir'd, 
A  weaiy  soul  to  re^t  retir'd. 


gone  to  dwell  with  angel  bands, 

The  happ'y  and  forgiv'n, 
In  thy  father's  house  not  made  with  hands, 

Eternal  in  the  heaven, 
Where  grief  and  pain  shall  enter  not, 
And  earthly  emblems  are  forgot. 

0  !  yes  f  we  know  thou'st  found  the  shore, 

Of  still  and  quiet  streams  : 
Of  pastures  green,  where  ever  more, 

Thou'lt  bask  in  glory's  beams  : 
that  "  bourne  "  for  which  the  sad  soul  yearns, 
From  whence  no  traveler  returns. 

Thou't  laid  aside  the  trestle  board, 

The  compasses  and  square  ;  „ 
Thou  hast  resign'd  the  purple  robe, 


20  MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEMS. 

For  brighter  raiments  there — 
The  toil  is  o'er,  the  work  is  done, 
The  capstone  laid,  the  triumph  won. 

/          Thou'st  passed  within  the  inner  veil, 

In  that  bless'd  lodge  above  ; 
And  thee  will  angel  wardens  hail, 

In  fellowship  and  love  ; 
Where  many  a  harp's  seraphic  tone, 
Shall  sound  around  the  great  "  white  throne. 
x 

The  mem'ry  of  thy  deeds  of  love, 

Are  lingering  with  us  yet, 
Like  incense  floating  from  above — 

Those  tones  shall  we  forget  ? 
Ah  !  no,  by  all  that's  felt  below, 
The  orphan's  grief,  the  widow's  woe. 

And  kindly  round  our  brotherhood, 

A  silken  chain  thou'st  flung  ; 
'Twas  sweet  as  heaven's  dewy  flood, 

That  on  the  mountains  hung ; 
And  mercy,  love  and  friendship  there 
Were  woven  in  the  linklets  fair. 

'Twas  thine  the  wounded  heart  to  heal, 

The  tempest  passions  quell ; 
'Twas  thine  for  human  ills  to  feel. 


ACACIAN    LYRICS.  2l 

Where  earth-born  sorrows  dwell ; 
And  each  descenting  heart  and  mind, 
In  gentle  fellowship  to  bind. 

Thine  ark  is  safely  wafted  o'er 

The  surging  waves  of  time  ; 
There  thou  shalt  quaff  unceasing  lore, 

From  streams  and  founts  sublime  ; 
Rivers  of  joy  there  flow  along, 
Like  one  unceasing  tide  of  song. 

Brother,  within  thy  lethean  tomb, 

An  evergreen  we  fling  ; 
As  fadeless  shall  thy  spirit  bloom 

Tn  one  perennial  spring  ; 
Then  rest  thee  on,  until  thy  dust  again, 
The  last  trump  wake — "  so  mote  it  be" — amen. 


To  A  FRIEND 


Of  aught  there  is  that's  sweet, 
In  the  rude  tones  ^pit  from  my  lute-strings  ring ; 
Sweet  friend,  wilt  thou  not  kindly  greet, 
This  offering. 


Could  I  but  pour  a  strain 


22  MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEMS. 

The  trembling  strings  in  cypress  gloom  which  long 
Hath  hung,  I'd  sweep,  if  thou  but  deign, 
To  hear  my  song. 

When  but  an  artless  child, 
Of  glorious  fame  I  had  a  glowing  dream  ; 
Around  my  brain  the  fancy  wild, 
Is  still  my  theme. 

And  do  ambition's  fires, 

Thou't  ask — burn  in  fond  woman's  gentle  soul  ? 
And  doth  it  wake  those  deep  desires, 
Beyond  control  ? 

Say,  what  to  thee  is  fame, 

Again  thou'lt  ask — although  thro'  storm  and  shade, 
In  life's  dark  day  thou  win'st  a  name, 
That  may  not  fade  ? 

It  is  to  be  enshrined, 

Within  the  hearts  of  those — the  gifted  few — 
With  noble  and  exalted  minds, — 
The  good  and  true  ? 

I'd  teach  my  brother  man, 
To  love  the  pure — the  tAr  and  weak  defend 
To  be  the  orphan's  guardian,—* 
The  widow's  friend 

Breathe  words  of  solace  where 
The  heart  is  broke,  and  burns  the  throbbing  brain, 


ACACIAN    LYRICS.  23 

And  soothe  the  soul  o'er  which  despair, 
A  sovereign  reigns. 

A  lovely  wreath  I'd  fling 
Round  stern  celestial  virtue's  chastened  brow, 
Unto  her  shrine  sweet  offering  bring — 
Before  it  bow. 

Thus  I  would  write  my  name, 
In  flame  upon  the  arches  of  the  sky, 

And  o'er  my  harp  would  fling  a  wreath  of  fame 
That  should  not  die. 


AN  ALL  EOORT 

Roaring  adversity's  relentless  winds, 
Swept  madly  o'er  the  world's  dark  wilderness  ; 
When  through  its  trackless  wastes  and  drear  confines, 
A.11  sad  and  pale  with  want  and  weariness, 
iVandered  a  lone  and  mournful  orphan  child. 

A  patient  grief  sat  oilier  features  mild, 
While  worn  and  thin  aroand  her  fragile  form, 
As  if  to  shield  her  from  life's  fearful  storm, 
Its  last  scant  gift  pale  poverty  had  flung, 
W'hich  now  in  tattered  shreds  and  ruined  fragments 
hung. 


24  MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEMS. 

Beside  the  rough  and  thorn-encompass'd  way 
Sin's  horrid  imps  were  howling  seen  to  stray ; 
Gaunt  Famine  turned  to  heaven  its  leader  *yes, 
And  rent  the  troubled  air  with  shrieking  cries  ; 
Despair  with  livid  lips,  and  frenzied  laugh, 
An  opiate  cup  of  lethean  wine  did  quaff, 
While  deeply  dyed  in  darkness,  flame  and  blood, 
Stalked  grimly  near  Crime's  hydra-headed  brood. 

In  this  bleak  world,  ah  !  whither  should  she  fly  ? 
No  friends,  no  home,  oh  !  could  she  choose  but  die ; 
But  hark !  as  from  the  skies,  with  silvery  tone, 
A  voice  was  heard  to  say  "  let  her  alone." 
From  the  uncertain  sin-beclouded  way, 
Her  weak  unguarded  feet  to  lead  astray, 
An  ignus  fatuous  light  gleam 'd  from  afar, 
As  shines  upon  the  night  some  isolated  star. 
And  from  soft  Pleasure's  elfin  guarded  isle, 
The  murm'ring  winds  a  wild'ring  incense  flung  ; 
While  on  the  sea-washed  rocks  with  Circean  wile, 
Temptation's  soul-alluring  syrens  sung ; 
Where  many  a  subtle  coil  of  woe  they  weave, 
The  earth-sick,  way-worn  pilgrim  to  deceive. 
How  dark  the  vale  of  woe  that  lay  beyond — 
How  fathomless  the  gulf  that  blacken'd  yawn'd ; 
She  heeded  not  the  Stygean  surges  roar, 
And,  as  if  some  spirit-strain  once  more 
To  hear,  the  child  her  ravished  ear  bent  low, 
And  from  her  violet  eyes  wip'd  off  the  dews  of  woe. 


ACACIAN    LYRICS. 


25 


'Twas  not  Temptation's  mad'ning  strains  she  heard. 

But  sweeter  far,  a  charm 'd  and  mystic  word ; 

And  with  that  sound  which  she  knew  passing  well, 

Was  linked  a  sign  of  talismanic  spell ; 

Dispersing  every  earth-born  grief  and  fear, 

And  bound  with  magic  power  the  child's  enraptured  ear. 

Gliding  upon  the  gloom, 
A  sweet  voice  rippled  musical  and  clear, 
Inspired  as  the  rapt  wisdom  of  a  sear, 
Yet  as  a  mother's,  soft,  when  from  its  troubled  sleep, 
Her  darling  frightened  wakes  to  sob  and  weep, 
She  lulls  again  with  gentle  songs  to  rest, 
The  sobbing  one  upon  her  faithful  breast. 

Lo  !  on  time's  changing  ocean  dark  and  vast, 
A  heaven-directed  barque  was  launched  at  last ; 
An  angel  guide  with  loving  eyes  of  light, 
Controll'd  it  through  the  foggy  veils  of  night ; 
Faith  watched  the  helm  with  heavenward  look  serene 
While  Charity,  sweet  maid,  with  tender  mein, 
Stood  near,  and  smiling  Hope  with  rosy  wings, 
From  joy's  enchanted  lyre  of  golden  strings, 
Sweet  strains  awoke,  to  cheer  the  drooping  child. 
Across  the  wildermg  waste  of  waters  wild. 
Laced  by  a  golden  strand  was  seen  to  smile, 
Far  off,  a  gem-like  palm-embower'd  isle  ; 
Where  cloudless  arched  the  soft  cerulean  skies, 
And  light  aromas  floated  sweet  as  summer  sighs ; 
Where  Harmony,  that  blest  and  gentle  river, 


26  MRS.  MUNDAT'S  POEMS. 

Its  chiming  songs  went  murmuring ; 

Soft  as  the  breath  that  thro'  the  palm  leaves  quiver 

Or  the  light  waving  of  an  angel's  wing. 

Amid  the  incense-breathing  bloom  a  strain 

Of  joy  in  floating  melodies  arose, 

Where  truth-illumined  shone  a  skiey  fane, 

Whose  time-defying  walls  stood  forth  in  calm  repose, 

Wisdom  and  strength  adorned  ia  columned  pride, 

While  beauty's  graceful  arch  bent  o'er  the  portals  wide. 

And  there  the  orphan's  rosy  childhood  hours, 

Went  by,  list'ning  among  the  joy-born  flowers 

To  life's  great  lyre,  whose  chaunting  tones  profound, 

&rose  in  many  an  under-swell  and  spirit  sound. 

Wave  after  wave  of  time  went  swelling  on — 

In  sinless  dreams  her  childhood  hours  were  gone, 

And  still  the  guide  stood  near  and  gently  spake, 

As  breezy  murmurs  over  still  woods  break. 

*'  Fair  child,  doth  not  thy  spirit  sometimes  yearn 
For  home  beyond,  where  ageless  planets  burn  ? 
Those  orbs,  when  floating  thro'  the  blue  sublime, 
That  sung  of  old  creation's  glorious  hymn ; 
A  world  of  light  dost  thou  not  sometimes  deem, 
Floats  viewless  o'er  immensity's  broad  stream, 
Where  mortal  ear  ne'er  heard  its  raptures  full, 
Nor  eye  had  seen  its  treasures  beautiful?" 

The  orphan  sighed — "Ah  !  why  should  soul  of  mine, 
For  joys  more  pure  or  visions  more  divine, 


ACACIAN    LYRICS.  27 

E'er  seek  beyond  the  sky-bound  spheres  to  roam  ? 
Am  I  not  bless'd  and  free  in  this  terrestial  home  ?" 
The  angel  smiled — "  Ah  !  poor  weak  child  of  clay, 
Know'st  thou  ye  are  but  insects  of  a  day  ? 
To-morrow  these  pale  children  of  decay, 
Smote  by  the  stygian  breath  shall  pass  away. 
When  on  thy  sight  life's  transient  glories  fade, 
And  strong  upon  thy  heart  death's  fingers  cold  are  laid, 

When  all  the  sounds  of  life  wax  dim, 

And  voices  soft  of  seraphim, 

Upon  thy  faint  ear  call  away, 

Wilt  thou  then  pause  to  go.     Oh  !  say. " 

"Ah  !  no ;  if  that  I  knew  a  world  more  fair, 
Where  enter  not,  nor  pain — nor  death — nor  care.*1" 

"Then  with  thy  spirit's  proud  bright  eyes  behold 
That  which  the  seers  inspired  song  of  old." 
The  orphan  smiled  and  to  the  shore  advanced, 
As  through  a  prison  bright  its  spirit  vision  glanced. 
And  then  the  angel  smiled  with  look  benign, 
"What  seest  thou  fair  child — sweet  orphan  mine?" 

"An  angel-peopled  world— a  brighter  clime  than  this; 
A  land  of  more  substantial  joy — more  radient  bliss — 
A  Lodge  of  spirit  light  beyond  the  tomb, 
Where  beauteous  bowers  of  deathless  cassia  bloom." 
"  'Tis  well — know'st  thou  a  brother  from  yon  lodge  of 

light, 

Came  down  in  days  of  old  to  dwell  ? 
Our  King  and  great  high  Priest,  whose  wisdom  bright, 
Outshone  the  quenchless  spheres. — Did  he  not  tell, 


I 


28 


MRS.  MUNDAT'S  POEMS. 


Our  brethren  at  the  temple's  shrine, 

Who  heard  with  sacred  awe  his  words  divine  ? 

'  Behold  !  ye  have  a  mission  to  fulfill, 

Go  ye,  and  do  our  Great  Grand  Master's  will.' 

So  thou  should'st  likwise  go,  and  like  the  ray 

Of  evening's  sundown  glories  round  thy  way, 

Let  winged  love,  and  star-eyed  hope,  and  truth, 

O'er  all  thy  works  prevail — go  consecrate  thy  youth, 

By  deeds  of  holy  faith  and  love  divine, 

In  its  aromal  innocence  to  heaven's  hallow'd  shrine ; 

For  time  is  but  a  brief  ephemeral  day, 

Bora  like  the  flowers,  to  bloom  and  fade  away. 

But  as  for  me,  a  more  enduring  toil  is  mine, 

For  have  not  I  beheld  vast  kingdoms  fall, 

With  all  that's  best,   and  bright,  that's   noblest  or 

divine  ? 

Upon  my  feet  their  ashes  lie,  while  over  all 
The  swift  winged  centuries  sweep  by 
As  mists  of  morning  'fore  the  sunlight  fly ; 
And  scattered  round  the  wrecks  of  pale  decay, 
On  many  a  surge  of  time  are  born  away. 

Go,  then,  sweet  orphan  mine — bright  heritor     of 

heaven, 

And  when  thy  mission's  done,thy  clay-born  sins  forgiv'n, 
Our  souls  again  shall  meet,  rejoice,  unite 
In  yon  bright  Lodge,  amid  the  sons  of  light, 
And  may  the  word  and  sign  as  taught  when  time  began, 
Upon  the  lips  of  faith  and  hope,  forever  with  thee 

dwell, 


ACACIAN  LYRICS.  2& 

And  shield  thy  heart  from  blight  till  heav'n-home  be 


won. 


And  death  and  danger  pass'd.     Sweet  child,  farewell." 
The  orphan  waved  a  sign  of  hope  and  joy  profound, 
While  sweet  the  angel  smiled,  and  strewed  his  palm 
leaves  round. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

REMINISCENCES. 
Respectfully  inscribed  to  a  graduate  of  Miami  University. 

"  How  warmly  and  vividly  they  rise, 

Those  memories  of  the  past ; 
The  flashing  eye,  the  kindling  cheek, 
As  whea  I  saw  them  last." 

"  Thy  heart  amid  vulgar  joys  will  aspire  to  something  holier ; 
thine  ambition,  amid  coarse  excitements  to  something  beyond 
thy  reach.  But  deem  not  that  this  of  itself  will  suffice  i'or  glory. 
It  is  but  an  imperfect  and  new  born  energy,  which  will  not 
Buffer  thee  to  repose.  As  thou  directest  it,  must  thou  deem  it 
to  be  the  emanations  of  thy  evil  genius  or  thy  good. — Sir  E.  L. 
Buiwer. 

Thou,  of  the  lofty  brow  !  where  proudly  sits 

Bright  intellect  enthron'd — where  glowing  thought, 

Oft  breaks  its  deep  repose,  thine  azure  eyes  illume. 

Oh  !  could'st  thou  lend  a  kind  indulgent  ear, 

For  thee  I'd  sing  in  numbers  wildly  breath'd, 

For  thee  I'd  string  my  rustic  harp  anew, 

If  but  the  slumbering  tones  of  memory's  lyre 

I  could  awake  ;  and  from  the  misty  past, 

Old  scenes,  old  faces,  pleasant  thoughts  recall, 

Back  to  thy  mind  like  long  forgotten  strains 

Of  melody,  which  sometimes  break  upon  the  ea-r. 

And  thou  hast  wander'd — Where  ?  Hast  seen  the  West? 
(30) 


MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES.  31 

In  all  its  gorgeousness  and  solemn  pride, 

The  prairie  vast  in  lonely  beauty  dress 'd, 

From  whose  utmost  verge, 'twould  seem  the  king  of  day, 

Through  the  blue  deeps  his  car  of  fire  upwheels, 

'Till  past  the  viewless  plains  and  rolling  spheres, 

Down-flashing  far,  his  waning  glow  goes  out 

In  seas  of  golden  light,  where  warm  and  low, 

The  occidental  skies  in  love  bend  down, 

Like  rainbow  draperies  o'er  his  evening  couch. 

And  there  amid  the  voiceless  solitudes, 
Thou  hast  beheld  those  vast  and  lonely  tombs, 
So  strangely  beautiful,  where  fall'n  warriors  sleep, 
Upon  whose  brain-bewildering  mysteries 
The  mildew  page  of  time  can  shed  no  light ; 
And  from  sweet  beds  of  nameless  flowers  didst  hear 
The  low  and  melancholy  winds  arise, 
And  wildly  sweep  above  the  unknown  dead, 
In  requiems  sad  their  dirge-like  melodies. 
Hast  thou  a  heart  ?     I  know,  I  feel,  thou  hast ; 
And,  in  her  silent  language,  nature  breathed 
Her  inspirations  beautiful  into  its  large  recess ; 
Amid  the  solemn  stillness  round  didst  hear 
It  throb  ? — as  if  Divinity  was  stirr'd 
Within  thy  soul's  profound ;  didst  kneel,  didst  bend 
In  adoration  on  the  soft  green  turf? 
As  if  within  the  area  of  some  cathedral  vast, 
While  poetry  in  measured  numbers  leap'd 
From  off  thy  lips,  as  touched  by  sacred  fire  ? 


32  MRS.  MUNDAT'S  POEMS. 

Art  thou  a  poet  ?     Aye !  it  must  be  so. 
Thine  eyes  have  not  been  blind,  nor  deaf  thine  ear*, 
Or  from  the  external  world  have  ever  failed 
To  the  internal  world  of  mind  to  make 
A  due  report.     The  heaven-descended  maid 
Her  radient  impress  on  thy  lofty  brow 
Hath  left,  while  soft  the  shadows  of  the  mind, 
Like  vapory  clouds,  lift  soft  and  airily  away ; 
And  all  created  things,  with  stupid  gaze 
Regarded  by  the  dull  and  prosing  mind, 
To  thee  half  spiritualized  appear, 
And  in  prismatic  glories  seem  to  shine. 

Oh  !  who  would  leave  the  pure  and  bright  creations 
Of  the  world  of  thought  for  dull  and  cold  reality  ? 
Who  would  not  ever  revel 'midst  his  own 
Imaginings — although  his  helicon 
Should  sometimes  prove  like  mine,  a  bitter  fount 
Of  tears  !     Hast  ever  felt  thy  mind  oppress'd 
With  thrilling,  keen  conceptions  of  the  grand, 
Sublime  and  beautiful  ?     Doth  thy  heart  yearn 
For  truth  and  purity  more  infinite  ? 
Thy  soul  imbuing  with  a  lofty  sense 
Of  its  high  nature  and  majestic  destiny, 
While  far  above  the  earth — its  carking  cares 
And  sordid  fripperies — it  seems  to  soar  ? 
If  thus  thy  mind  is  delicately  organized, 
Susceptibilities  possessing  keen, 
Amidst  this  harsh  and  jarring  world  thou  mayst 


MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES.  33 

Not  mingle,  or  dwell  among  distorted  things, 
Cold  and  unlovely  to  the  soul  and  sense ; 
Some  rude  and  reckless  hand  will  break 
The  music  of  thy  soul — disturb  its  harmony 
Come  !  let  us  wander — rememb'rst  my  facer 
I  essayed  to  say — along  fair  Tempe's  vales 
And  drink  Parnassian  dews. 

The  roseat  hues 

Of  youth  are  blooming  still  in  richness  on  thy  cheek : 
Perchance  life's  summer  may  not  close, 
E'er  thou  mayst  write  within  the  portals  wide, 
Of  Pindu's  hoary  fane — upon  its  lofty  walls 
A  Poet  Laureat's  immortal  name. 

Where  am  I  ?     I  left  thee  journeying  on, 
Amid  the  sky-bound  prairie's  lonely  solitudes, 
Striving  to  gain  some  island  home,  before  the  fall 
Of  eventide,  and  when  its  dim  and  woody  ailes 
At  length  didst  reach,  and  safely  hous'd  thyself 
Within  some  rustic's  shelter  rude — what  thoughts 
Of  painful  sweetness  then  thy  lonely  mind  employ'd ; 
And  home — "  sweet  home  " — friends  and  companions 

dear, 

Arose  as  with  a  spell  mysterious, 
And  pass'd  in  sweet  review  within  thy  memory. 
Friend  !  an  aching  pang — a  mystic  chord, 
Is  'twin'd  around  that  little  treasur'd  word  ; 
And  each  remove  from  a  dear  cherish'd  one, 
CB) 


34  MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEMS. 

As  'twere  by  tension  adds  a  keener  pang. 

Thou  hast  return'd — thy  roving  feet  once  more, 

Have  sought  the  spacious  halls  and  sylvan  shades, 

Of  proud  Miami,  famed  for  classic  lore. 

The  boon  companions  of  thy  youth  again  thou'lt  meet. 

And  press  the  eager  hand  of  friendship  warm, 

And  in  old  faces  read  new  welcomes  home. 

Thou'lt  tread  those  social  classic  halls  once  more, 

Where  new  fledged  politicians  oft  essay'd 

To  soar,  on  fancy's  wings  bombastically  sublime ; 

And  again  thou'lt  wander  through  the  twilight  groves 

Of  that  old  temple,  as  in  boyhood's  days, 

And  hear  their  wind-waked  melodies  arise, 

And  float  through  all  their  dark  and  dim  arcades, 

Till  cradled  in  the  tall  and  whispering  grass, 

They're  hushed  to  rest. 

'Tis  a  sweet  spot,  and  like 
A  paradise,  but  that  no  dark-eyed  houri's  hymn 
Is  ever  heard  along  the  sounding  aisles. 
Dost  recollect  those  golden  hours  of  bliss 
Long  passed — When  oft  with  book  in  hand  thou  did'si 
Beneath  those  sylvan  shades  recline,  where  oft 
The  antique  woods  in  vernal  beauty  rang, 
With  first  attempts  of  yduthful  eloquence, 
As  even  of  old  the  thunderer  the  forum  shook  ? 

How  oft  the  echoes  woke  in  answering  strains, 
To  Homer's  classic  songs — the  story  sad, 


MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES. 


35 


Of  proud  and  hapless  Illium's  fall, 

Those  records  old  of  war-like  deeds  and  god-like  men. 

And  here  thou'st  listen'd  to  the  empassion'd  strains 
Of  Byron's  deep  toned  melancholy  lyre, 
Wondering  in  strange  bewilderment  if  he  could  be, 
Or  man,  or    fiend,  or  of  celestial  birth, 
As  oft  with  mad'ning  sweep  he  rent  its  quivering  strings. 

And  o'er  immortal  Shakespear's  wizzard  songs, 
In  rapturous  admiration  thou  hast  bent : 
While  sweet  Ophelia's  woes,  and  Desdemona's  wrongs, 
And  Juliet's  touching  love,  and  hump-back'd  Richard's 

crimes. 

Of  the  enchanter's  power  gave  ample  proof, 
And  of  his  searchings  deep  within  the  still 
And  viewless  workings  of  the  human  heart. 

But  now  my  simple  reedy  song  is  done, 
For  well  I  know  that  thou  art  wearied  grown, 
With  my  untutor'd  lays  and  harpings  rude. 
In  its  accustomed  nook  my  rustic  lyre 
I'll  bang — but  yet  perchance  in  shady  covert  hid, 
Thou'lt  hear  me  warble  forth  again  my  wood  notes  wild. 
Tin  then,  farewell ! 


86  MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEMS. 

The  "  LONE  TREE,"  AND  THE  SOLITARY  GRAVE. 
To  Oscar. 

There  many  a  bird  of  weary  wing, 
Like  Noah's  wandering  dove  may  rest ; 

Its  grateful  shades  a  joyance  bring 
Unto  the  wayworn  trav'ler's  breast. 

Bear  high  thy  proud  majestic  boughs  thou  tree, 
And  wide  thy  kind  protecting  branches  spread ; 

.For  there  is  one  at  rest,  who  sleeps  by  thee, 

Bold  and  serene — our  cherished,  changeless  dead  I 

How  oft  my  dreaming  thoughts  go  back 

Thro'  the  misty  vale  of  sighs  and  tears  j 
To  bask  along  the  flow'ry  track, 

In  the  light  of  my  childhood's  years. 
Its  sense  of  joy,  how  deep  and  full, 

How  wild  and  high  its  burning  dreams  •, 
Life's  visions  shone  all  beautiful, 

As  through  a  prism  nature  gleams. 

Oh  !  then  the  fondest  hopes  were  mine, 

With  patient  zeal  my  mind  could  soar 
To  distant  joys  I  deemed  divine, 

Which  now  my  heart  can  feel  no  more. 
And  as  I  muse,  I'm  thinking  now 

Of  one  asleep  we  loved  so  well, 
With  placid  mien  and  thoughtful  brow, 

Who  by  our  hearthstone  used  to  dwell. 

And  through  the  might  of  kindred  ties, 


MISCELLANEOUS   PIECES.  37 

Her  angel  present 2iow  draws  near; 
While  with  my  spirit's  yearning  eyes, 

I  can  behold  the  loved  one  dear. 
How  spirit-like  her  azure  eyes, 

How  soft  her  voice  and  bland  her  smile ; 
E'en  as  the  light  of  summer  skies, 

That  glows  above  some  ocean  isle. 

How  mild  and  sweet  her  gentle  ways, 

How  pure  the  fountains  of  her  mind, 
Which  often  gushed  in  saphic  lays, 

Like  plaintive  harp-strains  of  the  wind. 
Bathed  in  Pierien  founts,  her  soul 

Wore  the  bright  hues  of  musing  thought ; 
Dreaming  of  some  enchanted  goal, 

As  if  from  heaven  those  hues  were  caught. 

Ah  !  sweet  as  Polyhymenia's  song, 

The  mournful  music  of  her  lyre,' 
In  classic  numbers  flowed  along, 

As  oft  she  swept  each  trembling  wire. 
No  more,  alas  !  that  spirit  lute, 

With  trembling  lays  our  hearts  shall  thrill ; 
The  tender  voice  we  loved  is  mute, 

And  the  throbbing  pulse  is  still. 

There  waves  a  solitary  tree, 

Upon  the  prairie's  distant  verge ; 
And  pining  winds  are  mournfully 

Awaking  many  a  solemn  dirge  ; 


38  MRS.  MHNDAT'S  POEMS. 

And  where  the  dreaming  star-eyed  flowers, 
Their  voiceless  hymns  of  joy  around, 

Are  singing  to  the  summer  hours, 
Her  place  of  solemn  rest  is  found. 

And  oh  !  'tis  consecrated  ground, 
For  there  she  sleeps  alone — alone — 

While  viewless  spirits  hov'ring  round, 
Methinks  have  claimed  it  for  their  own. 


SONG   OF   THE   GENII. 

"  There  is  a  principle  of  the  soul  superior  to  all  external 
nature  ;  and  through  that  principle  we  are  capable  of  surpass 
ing  the  orders  and  systems  of  the  world,  and  participating  the 
immortal  life,  and  the  energy  of  the  sublime  celestials. 

*  *  *  When  the  sonl  is  elevated  to 

natures  above  itself,  it  deserts  the  orders  to  which  it  is  awhile 
compelled,  and  by  a  religious  magnetism  is  attracted  to  another 
and  loftier  with  which  it  blelkLs  and  mingles. — Zanoni,  or  the 
Secret  Order. 

When  the  earth  is  slumber-bound, 
In  the  shades  of  night  profound, 
As  the  gush  of  silver  streams, 
All  the  starry  host  of  beams 
Shed,  their  dewy  glories  round ; 
When  the  chill  is  on  the  ground 
And  nor  step,  nor  voice,  nor  sound 


MISCELLANEOUS   PIECES.  39 

Breaks  the  solemn  stillness  round; 

And  the  moon  of  ashy  hue, 

Sails  along  the  deeps  of  blue, 

In  her  barque  of  dreamy  light, 

With  her  sails  of  cloudlets  white, 

And  her  figure-head  in  sight, 

Through  all  the  jewel 'd  hours  of  night. 

O'er  the  land  and  o'er  the  sea, 

Mortal,  we  are  there  with   thee. 

In  the  silence  dark  and  deep, 

When  the  weary  are  asleep, 

While  nor  cloud,  nor  speck,  nor  stain, 

Marks  the  cold  etherial  plain ; 

Then  to  us  a  charm  is  given, 

Not  of  earth,  but  fraught  of  heaven. 

Then  we  kindly  vigils  keep, 

And  the  willing  senses  steep, 

In  our  changing  tears  and  smiles, 

And  the  slumb'rer's  thoughts  beguile, 

In  the  rosy  land  of  dreams, 

Of  spirit-lyres  and  singing  streams, 

Fancy-wrought 

Wing'd  with  thought,  far  away. 

In  the  shadow  of  the  woods, 
Where  the  roar  of  falling  floods, 
Breaks  in  echoes  o'er  the  hill, 
By  the  lakelet  dark  and  still, 
In  the  golden  sunset's  glow, 


40  MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEMS. 

In  the  rallies  warm  and  low 
Mid  the  rainbow-tinted  flow'rs, 
Through  the  sylvan  walls  and  bowers, 
In  the  homes  of  mirth  or  woe, 
Where  e'er  the  wand'ring  zephyrs  go 
In  the  light  and  in  the  shade, 
With  the  soul  of  any  grade, 
Wrought  of  heaven,  or  earth,  or  air, 
We  are  here,  and  we  are  there, 
We  are  with  thee  every  where. 
And  around  thee  ever  dwell, 
Like  the  spirit  of  a  spell, 
Or  the  essence  of  a  dream, 
Or  the  life  of  perish'd  streams 
Like  the  shade  of  banished  sound, 
Or  the  pulse  of  night  profound 
Or  the  music  of  the  dews, 
Never  known,  never  seen, 
These  are  spirit-like  I  ween. 

When  the  meteor  mild  and  high, 

Flashes  down  the  midnight  sky, 

And  its  lone  sepulchral  gleam, 

Glows  within  the  lambent  stream, 

Swift  its  birth  and  pale  its  beam, 

As  the  mem'ry  of  a  dream  ; 

And  the  glow-worm  through  the  gloom, 

Lights  his  small  ephemeral  fires 


MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES.  41 

Where  the  ivy  wreathes  the  tomb, 
And  the  tones  of  orphean  wires, 
Tremble  in  the  tall  rank  grass, 
While  through  the  steep  and  rocky  pass, 
Shrieks  the  owlet's  doleful  song, 
Waking  echoes  dull  and  long; 
Where  nor  bloom,  nor  verdure  smil'd, 

Midst  the  herdless  rocklets  wild; 

*  % 

Up  the  glen  and  o'er  the  marsh, 
Where  the  sounds  are  dull  and  harsh — 
We'll  be  with  thee  then  and  there, 
Tho'  thou  seek'st  to  wander  where, 
Aught  of  spirit  good  or  ill, 
Ne'er  shall  follow  against  thy  will. 

Mortal,  if  thou  seek'st  relief, 
From  a  soul-o'er-mastering  grief, 
Or  from  doubt,  or  dread,  or  fright, 
Or  with  step  and  bosom  light, 
Wand'rest  with  the  joyous  throng, 
Where  rich  harpings  peal  along  ; 
What  e'er  thy  wishes,  hopes  or  quests, 
What,  tho'  we  seem  unbidden  guests, 
What  e'er  betide  thee,  good  or  ill, 
The  voiceless  Genii  guides  thee  still. 


42  MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEMS. 

OSCEOLA'S    LAMENT. 

Here  in  these  lonely  prison  walls, 

Seminola's  chief  is  laid  ; 
The  white  man  from  his  forest  halls, 

Has  lur'd  him  and  betray'd. 

Here  in  the  white  man's  prison  chain'd, 
*  Like  an  eagle  caged  I  pine ; 

The  free  blood  coursing  through  my  veins, 
My  spirit  unresigned. 

No  more  I'll  bound  along  the  vale, 
With  a  kindred  warrior  band ; 

No  more  my  steed  will  snuff  the  gale, 
When  foes  invade  our  land. 

The  war-knife  we'll  no  more  unsheath, 

To  wreak  our  vengeance  fell ; 
Or  hear  the  loud,  clear,  war-whoop  shrill, 

Or  the  forest-brave's  wild  yell. 
i 

Our  council  fires  no  longer  gleam, 

Their  ashes  now  are  cold  ; 
And  far  from  Pensacola's  stream, 

Wander  our  warriors  bold. 

No  more  we'll  launch  the  bark  canoe 
From  off  the  pebbly  shore  ; 

The  finny  tribe  no  more  pursue, 
With  swiftly  dashing  oar. 


MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES.  43 

No  more  the  pipe  its  fragrant  fumes, 

Sends  curling  round  our  heads : 
Dead  silence  wraps  in  sullen  gloom 

The  spot  where  braves  have  bled. 

No  more  around  the  watch-fire's  blaze, 

Will  forest  maidens  dance  ; 
Or  Osceola  e'er  embrace, 

Or  meet  the  "  White  Fawn's"  glance. 

The  pliant  bow  lies  all  unbent, 

The  arrrow  now  is  broke  : 
The  red  man's  pride  and  power  is  wrent, 

His  neck  must  wear  the  yoke. 

Great  Spirit !  are  the  red  man's  wrongs, 

As  nothing  in  thy  sight  ? 
Is  treachery  and  crooked  tongues, 

Approved  by  thee  as  right  ? 

But  hark !  the  pale  face  may  be  near, 
Exulting  o'er  the  red  man's  pain. 

No  sigh  from  Osceola  shall  he  hear, 
He  may  not  hear  a  Chief  complain. 

When  storms  arise  and  round  us  sweep, 

The  bending  willow  quakes  ; 
But  proudly  stands  the  stately  oak 

It  scorns  to  bend — and,  breaks. 

A  smile  of  sullen  scorn  his  lip  now  wreath 'd, 
It  quivered — trembled — 'twas  the  last ; 


44  MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEMS. 

Proud  Osceola  now  no  longer  breathed — 
His  spirit  dark  and  grim  had  pass'd ! 


MUSINGS, 
On  the  Death  of  a  Class-mate. 

Look  yet  on  this  pale  face, 

Dim  grows  the  semblance  on  man's  heart  impressed, 
Come  near  and  bear  the  beautiful  to  rest. 

Spring  shall  return, 

Bringing  the  earth  her  lovely  things  again, 
All — save  the  loveliest  far — a  voice — a  smile — 

A  young  sweet  spirit  gone. — Mrs.  Hemans. 

Alas !  that  flow'ers  should  loose  their  blushing  hues, 

That  fairest  ones  are  ever  earliest  to  depart, 

That  autumn  with  its  chilling  breath  should  come 

To  kill  and  scatter  round  the  verdant  leaf ; 

That  time  should  smite  the  open  brow  of  youth, 

And  leave  his  wrinkled  impress  there ;  that  its  glad 

voice 

Should  e'er  be  hush'd — and  o'er  the  red  ripe  lips, 
And  radient  eyes,  that  death  should  set  his  seal. 
She  whom  I  sing  was  fair ;  e'en  as  the  brow 
Of  night's  pale  regent,  whose  enchanted  beams, 
Stole  down  the  Latmian  hills  of  old  and  charm 'd 
Endymepn's  heart  to  joy,  and  Paphean  dreams. 


MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES.  45 

Aye !    fair — and  there  were  those  perchance,  wha 

deemed 

Her  beautiful ;  but  there  was  that  within, 
Her  spirit's  temple,  that  woke  a  charm  more  potent 
Than  sweet  beauty's  self  can  fling  upon  the  past. 
A  soul,  pure,  of  child-like  innocence  and  fraught 
With  the  celestial  fires  of  angel  poesy. 
She  had  early  learn 'd  the  joy  of  nature's 
Worship  ;  for  unto  her  all  things  assumed 
Prismatic  hues — a  deeper  charm  did  wear, 
Than  unto  minds  of  common  mold.     The  fields 
And  plains  in  sunny  beauties  dress'd ;  the  wood'f 
Dark  solitudes — the  shad'wy  lake  within 
Whose  breast  serene,  in  silence  floats  each  form 
Of  nature's  charms — the  pulseless  spheres  of  night, 
Like  ageless  sentinels,  that  keep  their  watches  cold 
Along  the  silent  sky's  far  infinite, — 
The  stately  moon  in  her  cold  beauty  dress'd, 
The  brilliant  sunset — gold  tinged  and  crimson  dy'd, — 
The  fitful  music  of  aeolean  winds, 
As  they  would  rise  and  sweep  the  ocean's  crest, 
And  through  the  dim  woods  wake  their  murmurs  deep ; 
The  silvery  chime  of  many  mingling  streams, 
And  the  blithe  songs  of  summer  birds ;  these, 
With  all  their  varied  charms,  sank  deep  within  her 

heart, 

And  stir'd  the  placid  waters  of  her  soul, 
Which  gushing,  flow'd  away  in  streams 
Of  sweetest  melody. 


46  MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEMS. 

And  she  had  musings, 

Strange,  yet  sacred ;  musings,  such  as  may  dwell 
Within  the  breast  of  innocence  alone  : 
For  oft  would  she  in  dreamy  reveries  'rapt, 
Recline  upon  the  soft  green  sward  and  watch 
The  towering  clouds  as  they  would  rise  and  float, 
Like  panoramic  scenes  in  mountain  strength 
And  majesty  away. 

And  upward  still, 

Her  thoughtful  gaze  was  fixed,  as  if  to  pierce 
The  far  beyond — and  with  intelligence 
Divine,  to  hold  converse — while  the  mute  joy 
Of  her  pure  soul  bedew 'd  her  eyes'  soft  azure, 
As  though  sh'd  caught  a  tissuey  dream  of  heaven  ! 
And  oft  her  parian  hand  amid  the  lute  strings 
Wander'd  for  strains  inspired — and  when  they  came, 
The  charm 'd  soul  trembled — thrill'd,  and  was  absorbed 
In  music ;  now  sweet  and  low,  then  wild  and  high, 
As  the  strange  gush  of  Memnon's  fabled  sounds, 
Whose  surges  deep  stole  round  the  column'd  arches 
Of  the  antique  fane,  and  in  the  fret-work, 
Of  the  lofty  dome,  and  down  the  time  worn  walls 
The  mystic  voice  expired. 

E'en  now  my  heart 

Thrills  with  a  sense  most  sad  of  melancholy  joy, 
As  recollection  stalks  along  the  past, 
When  gently  link'd  in  friendship's  rose-wreathed  chain, 


MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES. 


47 


I've  wandered  oft  along  the  twilight  aisles 

Of  some  far  echoing  wood,  with  her  who  oft 

In  dalliance  fond  would  smooth  my  sadden'd  brow, 

And  round  her  playful  ringer  'twin'd  my  careless  hair. 

But  she,  amid  the  mournful  cadences 

Of  sounds  autumnal ;  of  falling  leaves, 

And  faded  flowers,  hath  lately  gone  to  rest. 

O  {  would  I  might  recall  those  hours  serene, 

And  backward  roll  the  lethean  waves  of  time, 

And  from  oblivion's  ebon  vortex  glean 

The  treasures  of  the  past. 

Alas !  no  more 

Shall  her  bland  voice,  or  sunny  smile,  or  words 
So  full  of  trustful  hope  e'er  fall  again 
Upon  my  riven  heart,  or  shine  above 
My  lonely  way ;  for  with  those  halcyon  hours 
My  brightest  dreams  of  hope  and  joy  were  blent, 
Now,  each  Succeeding  one  that  onward  rolls, 
Bears  ample  record  of  my  falling  tears. 
Lo  !  where  yon  willow  with  the  cypress  vine, 
In  grief-like  silence  twines  its  fibrous  limbs, 
A  hillock  rises  green,  and  the  low  winds, 
In  fitful  gusts,  wail  through  the  tall  grass  mournfully, 
A  death-dirge  o'er  the  tomb  j  the  lost  of  earth ; — 
'Tis  there  she  lies,  in  awful,  sweet  repose. 
Spring,  with  her  bland  and  gentle  breath  shall  kiss 
The  earth  again,  upon  whose  glowing  breast, 
In  radient  bloom  shall  smile  the  sta   eyed  flowers, 


48  MRS.  MONDAY'S  POEMS. 

A.nd  the  extinguished  flame  may  be  relit, 

But  spring  ao  more  shall  e'er  the  rosy  hues 

Of  life  to  the  still  features  of  the  voiceless  dead 

Restore,  or  e'er  the  spirit-fires  relume. 

And  yet  I  would  not  summon  back  the  soul 

Departed — fetterless,  pure,  and  free — or  wake 

It  to  life's  miseries.     I  would  not  compass 

That  celestial  spark  within  a  woe-worn  tenement 

Of  sickly  clay,  though  cold  and  damp  her  narrow  bed 

And  her  repose  be  long  and  dreamless, 

Although  no  orient  beam  of  morning  sun, 

Or  evening  moon,  or  melancholy  stars, 

Shall  gleam  along  the  dim  sepulchral  halls, 

To  gild  their  darkness,  or  music-murmurs 

Of  charming  streams,  or  songs  of  birds  or  wind; 

The  long  monotonous  night  may  ever  break. 

Ah  !  no-^-I  would  not  now  unlock  eternity, 

Or  e'er  disturb  the  death-bound  slumberer's  rest. 

Yet,  careless  wand'rer,  step  not  rudely  o'er 

The  sacred  dust,  lest  ye  shall  crush 

The  violets  there  that  blossom  on  her  breast. 

They  hang  their  timid  heads  and  weep  all  night, 

Until  the  morning  sun  with  genial  ray, 

Shall  kiss  the  trembling  tears  away. 

The  modest  weepers  crush  not,  for  a  semblance  fair, 

We've  found  in  them  of  her  who  sleeps  below. 

Like  pleasant  thoughts,  or  evanescent  hues 

Which  curtain  sunset  with  their  gorgeous  dyes ; 

I-ike  a  soft  dream,  or  dying  melody 


MISCELLANEOUS   PIECES.  49 

That  leaves  no  trace  behind — so  her  mild  spirit 
Took  its  flight,  and  the  soul-lit  radiance 
Of  her  deep-blue  eyes  went  out  forever ! 


ROSSEAU'S   HELOISE. 
Adjuration. 

Can'st  thou  forget,  that  solemn  day 

Whea  warm  in  youth  I  gave  the  world  away? 

Csn'st  thou  forget  what  tears  that  moment  fell. 

t\  hen  lost  to  thee,  I  bade  the  world  farewell?— Pope. 

Deep  are  thy  fountains  love,  thy  spells  how  strong, 
Thy  draughts  are  poisonous,  and  thy  joy  thrills  pain ; 
Yet  is  there  bliss  in  your  refin'd  excess,  tho'  long 
The  sad  o'er  burthen'd  soul  may  strive  in  vain, 
To  rend  from  off  the  mind  the  burning  chain, 
In  wild  idolatry  that  mad'ning  binds, 
Unsought  the  throbbing  heart,  and  o'er  wrought  brain ; 
Ah  !  sacred,  pure  and  bless'd,  is  love  that  finds, 
One  heart  alone — one  soul — one  sacred  shrine. 

And  I  have  lov'd  e'en  thus,  until  my  brain, 
Went  wild,  and  in  my  spirit's  wretchedness, 
Have  curs'd  me  for  that  worship.     All  in  vain 
Have  striven  the  spell  to  break.  Oh  !  who  could  guess 
That  those  sweet  dreams  would  bring  such  deep  dis 
tress  ? 


50  MRS.   MUNDAT'S   POEMS. 

Ah !  ne'er  again  such  love  my  breast  shall  know, 
For  it  became  a  madness,  and  did  press 
The  life-blood  from  my  heart,  like  lava  streams  to  flow 
O'er  my  scorch'd  eye-balls,  burning  with  their  woe. 

iTears  have  roll'd  on,  and  o'er  my  cheek  and  brow, 
/ale  sorrow's  impress  ever  sits  to  tell, 
That  all  the  past  is  but  a  waste,  as  now, 
A  fearful,  pleasing  dream,  on  which  I  dwell, 
With  such  strange  happiness,  striving  to  quell 
These  passion-hopes.     Hear  me  ye  gods !  I  bow 
In  tearless  anguish  which  my  bosom  swells, 
And  'fore  the  shrine  of  heaven  this  last  wild  vow 
I'll  breathe :  love  to  nought  earthly  shall  my'lips  avow 

Hear  me,  ye  burning  spheres  !  behold  it,  heaven ! 
Thou  melancholy  moon  and  glorious  sun ; 
Bear  ye  all  witness,  how  my  heart  was  given 
With  its  proud  hopes  and  quenchless  love  to  one 
Who  sighs  with  blighted  heart  o'er  joy-dreams  done, 
And  far  from  me  by  cruel  fate — alone — 
Was  o'er  the  waste  of  disappointment  driven  ;— 
Love  wept  as  oft  it  mark'd  the  wreck  begun, 
O'er  the  free  hearts  it  scarcely  just  had  won. 

Alas !  for  me  the  wreck'd-crush'd,  and  heart  riv'n, 
There  smiles  no  future  dream  of  hope  or  rest. 
Ah !  why  to  me  was  life  so  joyless  given  ? 
Which  seems  a  fearful  and  mysterious  jest ; 
Yet  shall  the  earth-worn  pilgrim  still  be  bless'd, 


MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES.  51 


If  in  the  unrefunding  tomb  there  is  repose, 
For  soon  within  its  halls  I'll  be  a  guest, 
Heedless  alike  of  all  life's  follies  and  its  woes, 
Where  love  forgets  its  tears,  and  hate  its  foes. 


AUTUMN  WINDS  ARE  SIGHING. 
A  Dirge. 

''  Thy  do  ye  rustle  on  your  dark  wings,  ye  whistling  storma 
oftkeeky?"—  Ossian. 

Sad  autumn  winds  are  sighing, 
Sweet  summer  gems  are  dying, 
The  forest  leaves  are  lying, 

All  withered,  scorch'd  and  sear. 

And  through  the  air  are  flying, 
Strange  birds  that  fast  seem  hieing, 
To  a  land  with  ours  vicing, 

E'er  the  yelling  blasts  were  here. 

The  wind-god's  wildly  sweeping, 
His  lyre  that  erst  was  sleeping, 
Midst  modest  violets  weeping, 
Their  sweet  cerulean  dew. 

No  silver  founts  are  leaping, 
The  wood-nymphs  fair  are  weeping, 
And  summer  days  are  creeping, 
On  to  their  sad  adieu. 


52  MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEMS. 

"  The  melancholy  days  are  here," 
With  mournful  sounds  and  storm  clouds  drear, 
Telling  with  many  an  emblem  sear, 
We  all  shall  pass  away. 

The  blast  is  round  me  pealing, 

A  gloom  o'er  earth  revealing  ; 

O'er  nature's  cheek  is  stealing, 

The  hectic  of  decay. 

No  choristers  are  singing, 
No  buds  or  flow 'rets  springing, 
For  battling  sounds  are  ringing 

With  the  storm-trump's  blast. 

The  circean  song  from  pleasure's  bower, 
And  leaf,  and  bird,  and  bud,  and  flower, 
And  springing  fount,  and  summer  hour, 
Are  buried  with  the  past. 

Hollow  winds  are  roaring, 
Chill  autumn  rains  are  pouring, 
All  nature  seems  deploring, 
Her  glowing  beauties  fled. 

Moan  !  moan  !  ye  sobbing  winds, 
Since  in  your  wail,  the  sorrowing  mind^ 
Of  its  wild  griefs  a  semblance  finds, 
Like  us,  ye  wail  the  dead. 


MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES.  53 

To  ,A  YOUNG   POETESS. 

"  Come  let  us  wander,  *  *  *  • 
i  essay'd  to  say,  along  fair  Tempo's  vales, 
And  drink  Parnassian  dews." 

Listen,  oh,  list !  sweet  minstrel  maid, 

Upon  whose  thoughtful  brow, 
Parnassian  wreaths  are  blooming  laid, 

Bright  songstress,  hear  me  now. 

Thou  hast  arous'd  my  slumbering  lyre, 

Its  "  wood-notes"  woke  again  ; 
While  every  thrilling  spirit- wire, 

Yields  back  an  answering  strain. 

I  ween  that  thou  art  young  and  fair, 

Of  mild  and  gentle  ways  ; 
With  sad  sweet  eyes,  and  sunny  hair, 

So  tender  are  thy  lays. 

The  plume  tips  of  its  viewless  wings, 

Some  fairy  sprite  doth  sweep 
Across  thy  lyre's  electric  strings, 

So  full  its  tones  and  deep. 

Thy  song  is  like  the  winds  that  float, 

Among  the  autumn  leaves  ; 
Or  like  the  ring-dove's  plaintive  note, 

So  mournfully  it  grieves. 

Where  thou  the  early  flow'ra  did'at  cull, 


64  MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEMS. 

That  grace  thy  mountain  streams, 

Did'st  learn  those  musings  beautiful — 

Pure  thoughts  and  holy  dreams  ? 

Ah !  where  the  lofty  "  elm  woods"  rise, 

The  pine  encircled  hills, 
That  seem  to  emulate  the  skies, 

Where  gush  thine  own  wild  rills. 

There  hast  thou  learn'd  that  mystic  lore, 
While  o'er  thy  musing  mind, 

A  pensive  joy  sits  evermore, 
A  happiness  refined. 

Say,  gentle  priestess  of  the  lyre, 
Amid  thy  heart's  wild  springs  ; 

Hath  felt  unquenched  no  deep  desire— 
A  hope  that  upward  springs  ? 

For  joys  more  infinite  and  high, 

For  glories  more  sublime, 
In  yon  pure  world  beyond  the  sky, 

That  soul-illumin'd  clime  ? 

And  doth  not  through  thy  slumbers  glide, 
Some  soft  entrancing  spell ; 

As  though  still  watching  by  thy  side, 
Kind  sister  spirits  dwell. 

From  angel  Kathleen's  dreamy  eyes, 
Didst  inspiration  quaff? 


MISCELLANEOUS   PIECES.  55 

While  on  the  evening  wind's  low  sigh, 
Was  borne  her  syrean  laugh. 

For  oh !  may  not  the  lost  return  ? 

From  their  far  realm  of  light — 
The  lov'd  for  whom  our  tried  hearts  yearn, 

Tell  thou  of  visions  bright ! 

I  may  not  now  behold  thy  face, 

In  this  our  narrow  sphere  ; 
But  in  that  blest  and  happy  place, 

With  those  we  cherished  here  ; 

With  choral  hymns  may  we  not  meet, 

Amid  an  angel  throng  ; 
Where  we  that  seraph  band  shall  greet, 

The  sisterhood  of  song. 

But  hark !  the  pulse  of  time  throbs  on, 

And  hush'd  the  answering  strain, 
The  willow's  sighing  boughs  upon, 

I'll  hang  my  lyre  again. 


60  MRS.   liUNDAY'S  POEMS- 

THE    SHIPWRECK. 

The  queenly  ship !  brave  hearts  had  striven, 
And  true  ones  died  with  her. 

I  stood  on  the  sea-wash 'd  beach  alone, 
Listening  the  ocean's  solemn  moan ; 
The  winds  were  pillow'd  on  the  waves, 
Up-sparkling  from  their  pearl-spar'd  caves ; 
And  swift  the  dolphin  leap'd  in  light, 
Like  a  radient  meteor  beaming  bright, 
Scathing  the  face  of  the  glassy  plain, 
As  it  rose  in  air,  then  swam  again. 
All  hush'd  and  calm  was  the  deep  serene, 
When  the  shadowy  form  of  a  ship  was  seen, 
Slow  sailing  onward  to  the  land, 
Of  those  who  sought  a  kindred  band. 
Tell  us  ye  winds — oh !  did  not  they, 
Of  friends  and  homes  far,  far  away, 
Bright  dreams  of  hope  and  joy  create  ? 
Or  dream'd  they  of  the  coming  fate, 
That  o'er  their  visions  fair  should  cast, 
Its  shadows  dark  to  kill  and  blast 
Each  hope-bora  dream  ?     Oh  !  fearful  night, 
When  loved  ones  there  with  eyes  of  light, 
Still  sought  the  shore  with  yearning  sight, 
Who  thought  of  some  sweet  happy  day, 
Ere  childhood's  hours  had  pass'd  away, 
Spent  in  some  consecrated  bower : 
Or  parting  words,  or  joyous  hour. 


MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES. 

Or  low  sweet  voice,  or  murmur'd  vow, 
Or  smile  of  one  that's  sleeping  now. 
Alas  !  alas — no  more — no  more — 
Those  lov'd  ones  e'er  shall  press  the  shore, 
For  lo  !  a  cloud  in  the  sun-set  sky, 
Caught  the  quick  glance  of  the  seaman's  eye, 
And  long  on  its  darkness  in  dread  he  gazed, 
E'en  while  the  sun  in  beauty  blazed, 
Till  'clipsed  within  that  threatening  cloud, 
As  'twere  within  a  sable  shroud. 
Like  a  fiery  serpent  wildly  flew, 
Adown  the  heavens  the  lightnings  blue. 
Hark  !  a  burst  of  thunder  deep  and  far, 
As  the  war-drum's  note,  or  the  clattering  car, 
And  many  an  ominous  sound  was  heard 
With  the  stormy  petrel,  that  fearful  bird, 
Lashed  by  wild  circumambienFwaves, 
Oft  plunged  the  barque  to  ocean  caves. 
The  liquid  thunders  of  the  deep 
Were  summons  dread  of  dreamless  sleep ; 
From  the  sea-green  gulf  the  ship  emerged, 
.  As  o'er  her  masts  broke  the  angry  surge, 
While  o'er  the  waters  inky  face, 
The  white  foam  sailed  like  ghosts  in  chase. 
Fast  did  the  gaping  billows  rise, 
Like  mountains  lifted  to  the  skies, 
O'er  which  the  ship  as  in  mad  spasm, 
Roll'd  on  and  down  the  mighty  chasm ; 
Then  prayerful  cries  died  on  the  startled  air, 


58  MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEMS. 

With  curses  hoarse,  and  waitings  of  despair, 
'Twas  vain, — lost  was  the  ship — their  doom  was 

cast; 

One  mad'ning  shriek  rose  on  the  yelling  blast ; 
Then  all  went  down  with  bubbling  roar — 
The  stately  bark  and  crew  to  rise  no  more  ! 
Now  floats  the  wreck  in  ocean  spray, 
And  the  moaning  surges  murmur — where  are  they  ? 


THE  GRADUATE'S  FAREWELL. 

When  will  ye  think  of  me  my  friends? 
When  will  ye  think  of  me? — Hemans. 

Farewell !  my  classmates — here's  my  hand, 

Tears  are  around  my  heart, 
Thick  crowding  thoughts  are  thronging  up, 

In  this  sad  hour  we  part. 

Patient  we've  trod  the  classic  hallv 

Together  day  by  day ; 
Where  science  on  the  dark'nd  mind, 

Pours  her  celestial  ray. 

Together  at  the  shrine  of  truth, 
We've  bent  with  toil  and  pain  ; 

Together  spent  the  wealth  of  youth 
In  learning's  sacred  fane. 


MISCELLANEOUS   PIECES.  69 

And  oft  has  midnight's  weary  hour, 

Bedim'd  the  radient  eye  , 
As  we  the  musty  page  explored ; 

Nay,  do  not  heave  a  sigh. 

For  when  the  daily  task  was  o'er, 

In  circles  we  have  met ; 
To  spend  in  mirth  the  rosy  hours — 

Those  hours  shall  we  forget  ? 

Nay  brother — do  not  turn  away, 

There's  sadness  on  thy  brow  ; 
Now  gird  thee  up  the  manly  heart, 

'Tis  life's  commencement  now. 

Hark  !  a  silvery  voice — say,  dost  thou  hear  ? 

It  is  the  trump  of  fame ; 
Its  notes  come  ringing  sweet  and  clear, 

And  sings  a  deathless  name. 

Then  nerve  thy  arm  and  bare  thy  brow, 

To  meet  the  world's  dark  strife, 
And  proudly  breast  the  gales  that  blow, 

Amid  the  storms  of  lite. 

Thy  noble  energy  of  soul, 

Shall  not  be  spent  in  vain ; 
The  world  shall  feel  the  strong  control 

Which  minds  like  thine  maintain. 

In  truth  ye  are  a  gallant  band, 
My  heart  exults  with  pride  ; 


60  MRS.  MUNDAY'S    POEMS. 

As  proudly  beautiful  ye  stand 
Together  by  my  side 


THE  MOON. 
To  Fazio. 

Beholding  thee, 

Thou  beauteous  moon,  forgotten  passages, 
In  the  writ  pages  of  life's  volume  come 
To  me  afresh,  and  thoughts  of  dim  years  past, 
Move  in  the  soul. — S.  C.  Kinney. 

When  comes  the  solemn  twilight  hour, 
With  noiseless  step  and  sombre  shade, 

'Tis  then  I  feel  a  \vizzard  power — 
A  sadness  soft  my  breast  pervade. 

And  then  the  moon,  so  coldly  bright, 
Lends  sweet  enchantment  to  the  scene  j 

Sheds  forth  a  flood  of  holy  light, 
O'er  stirless  wood  and  vale  serene. 

Sweet  friend,  did  ne'er  her  silvery  face, 

Fair  hnages  to  thee  recall  ? 
On  memory's  page,  didst  ne'er  retrace 

The  past — with  its  sad  changes  all  ? 

The  pale  round  moon — 'tis  still  the  same, 
As  when  Chaldean  Shepherd  swains, 


MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES^  61 

With  flocks  and  herds  oft  grazing  came, 
Beneath  her  ray  on  Shinar's  plains. 

The  same  as  when  the  Moslem  came, 
Beneath  her  crescent  pale  and  wan, 

Razing  each  tower  and  Christian  fane, 
Of  powerful  Byzantium. 

E'en  now  she's  looking  sadly  down, 

Upon  those  lonely  solitudes  ; 
Where  marble  columns — sculphtur'd  stone, 

Lie  scattered  round  in  fragments  rude. 

Where  once  Palmyra's  haughty  queen, 

Zenobia — led  in  golden  chains  ; 
Through  Roman  streets  was  sadly  seen, 

Conquer'd  by  proud  Aurelian. 

How  much  of  joy,  of  woe  and  crime, 
Are  conjur'd  up  beneath  her  face — 

Wrote  on  the  mildew  page  of  time, 

As  backward,  thought,  those  scenes  retrace. 

But  Fazio,  when  again  the  moon 
Upon  thee  sheds  her  mellow  light, 

Look  on  her,  and  then  think  of  one, 
Who  too  may  gaze  with  fond  delight. 


62 


MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEMS. 


To    AN   ABSENT    ONE. 

-'From  the  bright  stars,  or  from  the  viewless  air, 
Or  from  some  world  unreach'd  by  human  tho't, 
Spirit,  sweet  spirit,  if  thy  home  be  there, 
And  if  thy  visions  with  the  past  be  fraught, 

Answer  me — answer  me !" — Hemant 
j 

From  friends,  and  home,  and  native  land, 

Thy  roving  feet  have  stray'd ; 
From  proud  Miami's  classic  band 

And  academic  shade, 

Where  art  thou,  where  ? 

Oh  !  tell  us,  on  what  sunny  isle, 

Thy  far  off  home  is  made  ? 
Thou  take'st  from  our  hearth  the  smile, 

That  was  too  bright  to  fade. 

Where  art  thou,  where  ? 

Dwell'st  thou  by  the  sounding  shore, 
Where  swift  the  blue  waves  curl ; 

Amid  the  ocean's  deafning  roar, 
Where  ships  their  sails  unfurl  ? 
Not  there. 

Or  wand'rest  where  the  ice-berge  gleams, 

Deep  fus'd  in  sunset  dyes  ; 
Where  the  ocean  eagle  soaring  screams, 

Earth's  tidings  to  the  skies  ? 
Not  there. 


MISCELLANEOUS   PIECES.  63 

Where  many  a  royal  Saxon  tower, 

Upvaults  with  ght'ring  dome  ; 
O'er  broad  Sarmatia — land  of  power, 

Of  toiling  serfs  the  home  ? 
Not  there. 

Shall  we  find  thee  on  the  Alpine  hills, 

Or  glaciers  icy  plains  ? 
Where  oft  the  huntsman's  clarion  shrill, 

Breaks  forth  in  gladsome  strains  ? 
Not  there. 

Do'st  linger  in  those  southern  shades, 

The  land  of  fadeless  flow'rs  ? 
In  sweet  Arcadia's  sunny  glades, 

Or  Andalusian  bowers  ? 
Not  there. 

Tell  us  ye  spirits  of  earth  and  sky, 

Doth  the  lov'd  one  dwell  in  a  world  more  fair  ? 
Where  the  heart  hath  no  grief,  and  the  bosom  no 

sight, 

Spirit,  sweet  spirit !  if  thy  home  be  there, 
Answer  me  !  answer  me. 

Low  voices  like  the  sound  of  streams. 

Far  off — through  the  cold  still  air 
Respond,  and  through  my  dreams, 

Mournfully  answer — where  ? 
0 !  where  ? 


64  MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEMS. 

To  LEONORE. 

What  now  to  her  is  all  the  world  esteems  ? 
She  is  awake,  and  cares  not  for  its  dreams, 
But  moves  while  yet  on  earth  as  one  above, 
Its  hopes  and  fears,  its  loathing  and  its  loves. 

Crabbe. 

It  is  the  hour  of  night's  r till  solemn  noon, 

And  the  heaven-encircied  earth  is  wrapt  in  slumber; 

While  through  the  glittering  isles  of  light  the  absent 

moon, 

Sheds  no  pelucid  beam  amid  the  number 
Of  golden  spheres  ;  nor  clouds,  nor  vaporous  stains  en 
cumber, 

Their  silent  walks  along  the  dark  blue  plains ; 
And  through  the  shades  of  night,  cold,  calm  and  sombre, 
Glides  soft  lip't  silence  o'er  the  world  again, 
Stealing  earth's  children  from  their  toil  and  pain. 

Lone  watcher  of  the  night,  art  thou  Leonore  ;  no  beam 
Responsive,  from  sympathetic  eyes  now  tells 
Its  love,  or  shines  into  thy  heart,  save  the  gleam 
Of  the  clear  cold  eyes  of  night,  and  it  would  seem 
Upon  thy  spirit  hung  pale  melancholy's  spell, 
Coloring  with  misty  doubts  and  fears  each  hope-born 

dream ; 

While  solitude  with  all  her  musing  children  dwell, 
A.  round  thy  hearth,  with  brooding  thoughts  such  as  we 

may  not  tell. 

It  is  no  sudden  change  that  prays  upon  thy  mind, 


MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES.  65 

But  a  deep  sense  of  utter  loneliness ,5 
A  solitude  of  soul — a  grief  refined, 
O  !  naught  that's  earthly  now  thy  heart  can  bles^ 
Nor  song  of  hope — nor  loves  deep  tenderness— 
Thine  is  not  a  common  woe — in  tears 
It  finds  no  outlet ;  they  could  not  express, 
Thine  inward  sorrow,  which  corrodes  and  sears, 
For  it  hath  lain  upon  thy  heart  and  burnt  for  years> 

Beat  on  great  heart  of  time !  beat  on,  beat  on, 
Thou  hast  no  balsam  for  the  spirit's  wound, 
Nor  can'st  thou  e'er  recall  the  priceless  things  now  gone, 
The  golden  chain  is  rent  which  all  so  sweetly  bound, 
With  garlands  fair  the  future  may  be  crown'd, 
And  yet  they  ne'er  can  wear  the  rosy  bloom, 
Of  those  that  gem  the  past — now  strown  around, 
Earth's  changes  pale  have  shrouded  them  in  gloom, 
Stern  destiny  forever  seal'd  thy  doom. 

And  thou  amidst  the  reckless  crowd  dost  wander, 
Seeking  some  lethean  draught  for  thy  heart's  woe, 
And  tho'  thou  seem'st  familiar,  still  thou  art  a  stranger, 
For  none  the  fearful  depth's  of  thy  heart's  griefs  may 

know, 

Lip  and  knee  worshipers  are  there,  in  accents  low, 
Breathing  sweet  words,  and  flatteries  vain, 
Who,  for  the  weak  weave  snares — but  oh  ! 
'Tis  discord  to  thine  ears,  and  to  thy  heart  'tis  pain : 
They  do  but  mock  the  things,  that  ne'er  may  be  again. 


6fl  MRS.    MUNDAY'S   POEMS. 

Remember'st  thou  thy  youthful  halc}ron  days, 
When  high-born  hope  did  thy  pure  soul  inspire 
When  thou  with  careless  ringers  oft  essay'd 
To  wake  the  latent  music  of  some  spirit  lyre  ? 
Seldom  came  sounds  harmonious  from  those  mysterious 

wires, 

Harsh  dissonance  and  jarring  discord  fell 
Only  upon  thy  silvery  ear — there  glows  no  fire, 
Of  angel  poesy  in  minds  impure,  or  dwell 
Sweet  heavenly  thoughts  which  oft  in  music  swell 

iTet  midst  thy  lonely  wanderings  thou  hast  swept, 
Dne  sacred  harp,  to  whose  wild  strings  thou  hast  bent 
In  list'ning  fear,  hoping  some  tone  to  have  kept 
In  memory's  ear.     Alas  !  its  strains  are  spent, 
The  spirit  sounds  are  dead — the  chords  are  rent, 
The  gush  of  melody — the  fall  deep  tone — 
Is  hush'd  ;  yet  faint  and  low  thy  sorrowing  song  is  blent, 
With  the  evening  winds,  whose  hollow  moan, 
Seems  like  some  spirit's  voice  in  answer  to  thine  own 

\ 
A  change  is  in  thy  song,  sweet  Leonore  ; 

'Tis  like  the  bulbul's  lonely  wail  when  heard, 
Where  pale  young  roses  weep  when  day  is  o'er, 
Beneath  the  orient  moon,  sweet  mournful  bird  ; 
Fet  must  forgetfulness — oh  !  painful  word, — 
Spread  like  a  funeral  pall  her  sable  veil, 
Over  the  past,  which  ne'er  may  be  disturbed 
By  memories  sad,  alas  !  'twould  naught  avail, 
To  waste  thy  music  in  a  funeral  wail. 


MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES.  67 

How  like  a  tissuey  woof,  how  wonderful  is  mind ! 
How  with  each  fibrous  thought  one  idea  dear, 
May  like  a  golden  thread  these  thoughts  together  bind  j 
While  pale  distrust,  and  hope,  and  quivering  fear, 
With  trembling,  and  dismay,  and  burning  tears, 
With  clear  brow'd  confidence  wage  open  war, 
To  rend  that  band  away — while  fate  severe, 
With  flaming  sword  presents  a  fearful  bar, 
To  the  soft  beams  of  hope's  auspicious  star. 


Music. 
Addressed  to  a  Listener. 

And  thou  didst  stay  thy  steps  ;  did'st  linger  nigh, 
And  wherefore  ?     A  careless  list'ner  was't  thou, 
Unto  my  wild  untutor'd  lays — my  rustic  songs  ? 
Oi  is  thy  soul  like  mine  ? — ever  as  a  stream, 
Which  gushing  flows  away  in  gentle  sounds  ? 
What  said  those  wind-waked  melodies  to  thee  ? 
Or  did  their  lowly  breathings  fail  to  reach  thine  heart  ? 
Did  not  those  gentle  tones  inspire  thee  with  a  sense 
Most  sweet  of  heaven  and  its  celestial  bliss  ? 
While  of  the  palmy  bowers  of  Paradise, 
Thou  had'st  a  bright  and  joyous  dream  ? 
Methinks  while  bending  o'er  my  simple  harp, 
Some  gentle  seraph  on  my  throbbing  breast 


68  MRS.  MUNDAT'S  POEMS. 

Had  laid  his  hand  and  whispered,  peace  be  still, 
While  all  the  warring  passions  hush'd  to  rest 
As  solt  as  those  within  an  infant's  breast, 
In  quiet  slept. 

What  tho'  sad  memories 
May  darkly  revel  in  the  woe-worn  soul, 
With  many  bitter  griefs  and  sorrows  fraught  ? 
What  though  remembrance  of  the  world's  dark  strife, 
May  press  upon  the  aching  and  the  weary  heart, 
Yet  music  can  the  wounded  spirit  soothe, 
In  memories  soft,  as  summer  evening's  latest  sigh. 
I  knew  that  thou  wert  near,  and  tremulous  grew  mv 

hand ; 

Why,  I  could  not  tell — but  all  in  vain  I  strove, 
Those  spirit  stirring  harmonies  to  wake 
Once  more — when  a  sweet  wand'ring  sprite, 
Swept  by,  and  with  a  silvery  wing  soft  touch'd 
My  mute  and  saddened  harp — and  sweet  a  strain, 
Of  melody  gush'd  forth,  to  the  glad  songs 
Of  Paradise  akin,  or  rather  like 
Some  exiled  angel's  lay — breathing  a  sad  lament. 
That  earth-born  joys  are  but  fantastic  fever-dreams. 

Song  of  the  Sprite. 

Wake,  mortal  wake  ! 

Awake  from  thy  dreaming  ; 
Lean  not  on  earth, 

All  is  but  seeming  j 


MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES.  69 

Earth  has  no  joy, 

Unshaded  by  sorrow, 
Spring's  fairest  flowers 

Will  fade  on  the  morrow. 

And  what  is  man's  goodness  ? 

Mix'd  with  weakness  and  foltj 
And  the  sound  of  his  life, 

Is  a  tone  melancholy : 
Thou  art  but  dust, 

A  mutable  creature ; 
Thy  affections  bestow  not, 

On  weak  human  nature. 
Then  wake,  mortal  wake, 

Awake  from  thy  dreaming, 
Lean  not  on  earth,  • 

All  is  but  seeming. 

A  most  delicious  softness  on  my  spirit  fell, 
While  the  sweet  joy  of  grief,  a  trembling  tear, 
Had  gathered,  and  on  my  drooping  eyelids  hung, 
And  yet  I  was  not  sad,  but  'twas  a  joy  most  sweet, 
So  near  allied  are  all  the  joys  and  griefs 
Of  earth,  that  both  in  their  excess, 
Are  fraught  with  tears — entranc'd  I  listened, 
And  I  fancied  that  the  evening  wind  did  sob, 
As  with  a  dying  fall  the  fairy  breathings  ceased. 
My  heart  which  had  grown  still  now  throbbed  again. 
1  turned  me  round — the  fairy  sprite  had  flown, 
While  silently  thou  had'st  departed  too. 


70  MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEMS. 


LINES 

On  the  death  of  a  Lady  who  died  on  the  eve  of  her  departure 
for  her  paternal  home, 

A  sufferer  on  a  sick-bed  lay, 

Around  whose  aching  head, 
Dread  fever-fires  in  rage  made  way, 

Whence  reason's  light  had  fled. 

'Twas  but  a  few  short  days  before, 

A  babe  sat  on  her  knee  ; 
And  as  she  sdftly  murmur'd  o'er, 

A  mother's  minstrelsy  : 
Sweet  haunting  thoughts  blent  with  the  straint 

And  hopeful  visions  bright, 
That  those  she  loved  might  yet  again, 

Smile  on  her  gladdened  sight. 

Alas  !  the  long,  long,  wish'd  for  day, 

Beamed  o'er  the  blooming  earth, 
While  she  upon  her  death-couch  lay, 

Far  from  the  household  hearth  ; 
The  fever  plague  alas  !  had  set 

Its  hectic  on  her  cheek — 
With  clammy  dews  her  brow  was  wet, 

Her  voice  was  low  and  weak. 

And  did  she  then  that  hope  forget  ? 

With  which  her  dreams  were  fraught — 


MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES  71 

Say,  did  sweet  mem'ry  linger  yet, 

Within  that  fane  of  thought  ? 
Ah  !  yes — throughout  her  fever-dreams, 

That  ceaseless  wish  had  sway, 
As  falls  on  dark  benighted  streams, 

Some  lonely  planet's  ray. 

And  thus  the  sufFer  sadly  spoke, 
"  Say  are  we  not  most  there  ?" 
And  from  some  startling  dream  awoke, 
"  Where  are  my  sisters,  where  ?" 
"  Oh !  yes  ;  we'll  be  there  by  and  by," 

With  warm  and  anxious  friends, 
While  o'er  her  couch  with  mournful  eyes, 

An  anxious  watcher  bends. 

"  We're  almost  there — we're  almost  there" 

Again  she  feebly  said — 
"  I  see  the  wild  streams  flashing  fair, 

O'er  many  a  rock-bound  bed." 
Oh  !  there  in  innocence  I've  play'd, 

And  rear'd  the  beechen  bow'r, 
And  down  the  flow'ry  dell  have  stray'd 
In  childhood's  elfin  hour. 

But  all  at  once  the  voice  was  still, 

The  pulses  ceas'd  their  play  ; 
The  longing  dream  was  now  fulfill'd, 

In  yon  bright  world  away  ; 
And  seraphs  from  the  realms  of  light, 


72  MRS.    MUNDAY'S    POEMS. 

Bent  o'er  the  dying  bed, 
While  on  their  wavering  pinions  bright, 
Her  grieving  spirit  fled. 

Oh !  she  indeed  had  found  the  goal, 

A  blissful  home  at  last ; 
Beyond — where  time's  dark  surges  roll, 

The  weary  soul  had  pass'd. 
No  more  along  her  father's  hall, 

Shall  sound  her  parting  words, 
Or  ringing  laugh,  or  light  foot-fall, 

Or  voice  so  like  a  bird's. 

Call  it  not  hard  that  she  hath  gone, 
Beyond  our  aching  sight ; 

Upon  her  soul  a  glorious  dawn, 
Bursts  forth  in  floods  of  light, 

For  life  is  but  a  passing  dream, 
A  ray — a  dim  uncertain  gleam, 
Of  joys  beyond  the  tomb. 

Life's  toiling  transient  day  is  done, 

The  spirit's  mission  o'er ; 
Substantial  life  it  hath  begun, 

Where  it  had  bloom 'd  before. 
We  know  that  thou  art  happy  there, 

In  thy  celestial  rest, 
In  angel  robes  thou'lt  wax  more  fair, 

With  those  the  pure  and  bless'd. 


MISCELLANEOTTi    PIECES.  73 

Vhere  fadeless  bowers  immortal  way 

Dost  thou  remember  still  ? 
Or  did'st  in  lethean  waters  lave, 

And  quaff  thy  spirit's  fill  ? 
Say,  wil't  thou  from  thy  natal  skies, 

Or  some  sweet  starry  sphere, 
Bend  earth-ward,  still  thy  radient  eye 

Watch  o'er  the  lov'd  ones  here  ? 

'Tis  silent  all — and  evening  shades, 

Are  sadly  gathering  round  ; 
A  mournful  joy  my  breast  pervades  ; 

Some  spell  my  heart  hath  bound. 
And  now  I  hear  the  autumn  winds 

Wail  through  the  perish'd  leaves — 
That  sound  in  thee  a  semblance  finds, 

So  mournfully  it  grieves.  - 

And  as  the  sobbing  voice  floats  by 

With  deep  and  solemn  swell, 
To  weeping  flow'rs  it  seems  to  sigh 

A  spirit's  sad  farewell ! 


74  MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEMS. 

THE  DAGUERREAN   GALLERY. 

Let's  call  and  see  the  pictures — 
A  fairy  grot,  this  gallery  of  art ! 
Where  true  to  life,  and  nature  pictur'd  stand, 
Groupings  and  forms,  that  facinate  the  heart ; 
So  perfect  is  this  skill  the  master  can  command. 

The  old,  the  young  are  there, 
And  bright  amid  the  galaxy  of  faces, 
Is  one  with  fair  young  brow  and  eyes  serene, 
The  child  of  love  and  favor'd  of  the  graces, 
Of  all  the  throng,  the  "  star  particular,"  and  queen. 

Look  on  this  picture  here — 
Is  it  not  like  ? — else  wherefore  flow  my  tears  ? 
Oh !  yes — too  true ;  this  faithful  semblance  dear, 
Of  one  he  lov'd  thro'  dark  and  shad'wy  years, 
-A  wand'rer  in  the  groves  of  some  supernal  sphere. 

And  here  as  in  thy  life — 
The  same  arch  smile  around  thy  lip  is  playing, 
The  tender  radience  of  thy  fervent  eyes, 
As  when  on  happy  scenes  their,  gaze  was  straying, 
And  soft  their  light  as  beams  of  midnight  skies. 

And  on  thy  open  brow, 
In  careless  ^race  a  wealth  of  sunny  hair, 
Is  clustering  still,  in  many  a  wavelet  fair, 
Aye  ;  all  are  there — each  feature  of  that  face  divine! 
Oh !  genius  bright,  the  power,  the  gift  is  thine. 


MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES.          -  75 

Oh  !  art  mysterious — 
That  with  thy  heav'n-born  hand-maid  light  can'st 

trace, 

The  image  of  the  mind  in  form  and  face, 
Which  impress  on  the  spotless  page  shall  last, 
Preserved  from  blight  or  mould  till  time  is  past. 


THE   PEN.  % 

Come  gentle  muse,  in  measur'd  lays  once  more, 
Unto  the  penman's  art  thy  votive  offerings  pour ; 
Come  let  us  roam  along  the  aisles  of  time, 
By  Zion's  sacred  streams  and  hills  sublime  ; 
Where  once  of  old  with  soul  and  mind  inspir'd, 
An  ancient  scribe  with  heaven's  wisdom  fiVd, 
On  Parian  tablets  white  as  artic  snow, 
The  sacred  law  transcribed — and  hence  we  know—* 
The  pen's  great  art  is  sacred  and  divine  ! 
Since  he  who  formed  our  being's  grand  design, 
First  wrought  with  holy  hand  the  skiey  lore, 
That  all  the  nations  worship  and  adore. 

And  by  this  hallow'd  Book  are  we  not  told 

Of  Babalonia's  king,  who,  in  the  days  of  old 

His  lordly  guests  unto  a  royal  feast 

Had  summon'd  ;  and  richest  viands  of  the  east, 

With  priceless  treasures  from  the  temple  brought, 


76  .          MRS.    MtTNDAY'S   POEMS. 

Shone  on  the  board  by  cunning  workmen  wrought. 
And  when  the  stirring  voice  of  revelry  went  high, 
And  sounds  of  harp  and  lute,  with  voices  soft  swept  by, 
Amid  the  rosy  splendors  of  Belshazfcar's  pillar'd  halls, 
While  sweet  aromas  rose  along  the  gilded  walls. 

Over  against  the  lamps  a  shad'wy  hand  did  glide, 
Which,  when  the  king  beheld,  his  heart  within  him  died. 
Trembling  and  pale,  convulsed  and  fix'd  he  sate, 
As  blasted  by  a  spell,  with  eyes  of  fear  and  hate, 
A  stifled  cry  arose  as  if  the  monarch  dream'd, 
While  from  his  burning  gaze   remorse  and  madness 

gleam'd  ; 

j&ony  and  cold  his  brow  as  when  in  death's  repose, 
Around  the  writhing  heart  its  icy  waters  close. 
Qod's  finger  wrote  his  doom,  high  on  the  gorgeous  wall, 
jad  morning  red  beheld  the  impious  tyrant's  fall. 

And  what  the  triumphs  that  the  pen  hath  wrought: 
That  herald  of  the  heart,  and  mercury  of  thought. 
Lo  !  when  a  little  band  of  valient  men, 
Proclaimed  "  we  will  be  free" — the  wing'd  pen 
Swept  o'er  the  spotless  page — a  glorious  word 
Impress'd — and  when  the  old  world  wondering  heard, 
Proud  Albion's  Lion  roar'd  in  thunder  tones, 
And  orient  despots  trembled  on  their  thousand  thrones. 
Beyond  the  western  wave  an  empire  rose, 
O'er  which  the  olive's  fragrant  blossoms  close ; 
Where    •       >m's  eagle  builds  her  eyrie  wild, 


MISCELLANEOUS   PIECES.  77 

And  wraps  her  "  aegis"  rouncTher  free-born  child. 
The  pen  hath  spoken !  and  not  all  in  vain, 
The  bloodless  sword,  that  hath  its  thousands  slain, 
The  potent  instrument  of  genius-gifted  minds  ; 
The  wizzard  power — the  mystic  link  that  binds 
The  glittering  gems  that  grace  the  labyrinths  of  time. 
How  varied  are  its  powers — how  low,  yet  how  sublime, 
"  To  build  the  lofty  verse,  or  honied  lines  of  rhyme, 
To  blazon  evil  deeds  or  consecrate  a  crime." 

Now  twined  with 'cypress  boughs,  or  laurel  wreaths 
Of  love,  and  hope,  and  fame,  and  death  it  breathes, 
With  thoughts  that  through  the  soul's  deep  sanctum^ 

thrill, 

To  soothe  the  aching  heart,  or  bind  the  tameless  will. 
Doth  not  our  hearts  exult,  grow  still — expire  ? 
As  o'er  the  poet's  page  of  breathing  fire, 
Instinct  with  soul  and  mind,  when  rapt  we  learn, 
Those  living  truths  that  shall  forever  burn  ?, 
And  by  its  aid  the  volume  of  the  past, 
Unto  a  wondering  world  has  been  unseal'd, 
While  stripp'd  of  dust  and  blight  now  stand  revealed 
The  glories  of  the  old  Augustan  age, 
Of  hero,  warrior-bard  and  poet-sage. 
Mark !  with  what  skill  the  artist  can  combine, 
IVith  written  charm  and  talismanic  sign, 
The  chaste,  the  smoothe,  the  graceful  and  refin'd, 
In  characters  of  thought  that  syllable  the  mind, 
Who  would  not  learn  with  strength  and  ease  to  wield, 


78  MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEMS. 

This  weapon  of  the  mincl  in  learning's  boundless  field? 

Who  would  not  emulate  the  master's  art, 

That  facinates  the  eye  and  speaks  unto  the  heart  ? 

TVhose  nimble  pen  glides  through  the  wordy  chase, 

With  many  a  circling  curve  or  line  of  waving  grace. 

Thus  far  I  have  proceeded  with  my  theme 

As  through  the  tissuey  windings  of  a  dream, 

And  yet  not  half  the  spoils  are  counted  o'er, 

Brought  by  the  pen  down  time's  benighted  shore, 

Not  half  the  triumph's  by  its  influence  won, 

Since  light  and  truth,  their  high  career  begun. 

Yet,  if  my  humble  lay,  unto  this  sacred  art, 

An  influence  lends,  that  speaks  to  mind  and  heart, 

My  wishes  are  achieved — my  object  won, 

The  muse's  task  is  ended  aud  my  sosg  is  done. 


CHILDHOO  D'S    RAMBLES. 

•"Sweetly  wild,  sweetly  wild, 

Were  the  scenes  that  charmed  me  when  a  child." 

Happiest  was  I  in  childhood's  day, 
FV^and'ring  among  the  early  flowers  of  May ; 
By  streams  of  sweetest  trill, 
In  the  slant  shades  of  evening  still, 
Along  the  hedge-grown  paths ; 
Or  o'er  the  fields  where,  wending  on  his  way, 


MISCELLANEOUS   PIECES.  70 

Amid  the  fragrant  swaths 

Of  new  made  hay ; 

The  merry  plow-boy  sings  his  careless  lay. 
Or  staying  at  rosy  morn', 
Amid  the  gentle  flocks — 
Their  snowy  fleeces  shorn  ; 
Nipping  the  low  sweet  shrubs  that  grow. 
O'er  moss-grown  rocks, 
And  ledges  steep ; 

Where  groups  of  virgin  snow-drops  peep, 
And  green  the  pendant  ivy  creeps, 
In  the  black  silence  of  the  glen, 
Where  all  day  long, 
The  damps  among, 
The  moody  owl  sleeps. 
/hese  are  the  scenes  that  charmed  me  then. 
And  oft  in  childhrod, 
Through  the  wild  wood, 
Where  the  fragrant  woodbine  blows 
With  the  single  petal'd  rose  ; 
I  sought  the  spring, 
In  steep  banks  hidden, 
Whose  waters  constant  gush  unbidden  ; 
Or  cool  down  dripping, 
The  green  rocks  o'er ; 
While  distant  roar, 
Of  cascade  wild, 

Sweetly  charmed  me  when  a  child. 
Or  wending  among  the  golden  shocks. 


80  MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEMS. 

^ 

Of  dew-perfuming  grain, 
Sweet  as  the  breath  of  early  rain, 
Where  groups  of  stalwart  men, 
With  mirth  and  jocund  songs  again ; 
In  scant  frocks 
Of  flaxen  woof, 
The  hospitable  roof 
At  early  morn  forsake, 
And  in  the  labors  of  the  field  partake. 
And  where  tassel'd  corn, 
With  rich  lands  of  fresh  plow'd  ground, 
Yield  fragrance  to  the  summer  air ; 
While  welcome  sound 
Of  supper  horn, 
Bade  from  the  field  the  rustic  swain  repair. 

Or  rambling  along  the  plain, 
Alone  throughout  the  live  long  day ; 

Humming  some  wild  strain, 
Of  self-taught  roundelay ; 

By  fence  rows  far, 
That  skirt  some  distant  field, 
Or  loitering  late  when  bright  the  vesper  star, 
Shines  from  afar  as  would  a  silver  shield ; 
And  bearing  home  the  spoils, 
Of  childhood's  rambles ; 
With  quick  and  stealthy  step  along  the  brake, 
Where  hidden  coils, 
The  fear-awakening  snake ; 
Or  trilling  oft  a  merry  lay, 


MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES.  81 

And  timing  it  with  buoyant  step  and  childish  gambol, 
Thoughtless  I  sought  my  home-directed  way. 
With  wreaths  of  heart's  ease  white  and  blue  ; 
My  bosom's  own  peculiar  flower, 
That  in  the  nooks  and  corners  of  the  fence  rows  grew  • 
Or  from  some  woody  height  or  lowly  bower, 
The  box-wood's  feathry  bloom ; 
With  string 'd  buds  in  scarlet  strans, 

Woven  in  shining  bands  ; 
Gleeful  o'er  my  young  brows  thrown, 
And  with  the  loose  locks  careless  worn, 
That  darkly  strayed  in  childish  grace, 
Around  a  pensive  face. 
And  on  my  way  star-lit, 
Oft  seeking  leaves  of  fungi  race ; 
Orange  and  scarlet, 
Wrought  in  gay  festoon  ; 
Where  mimic  orchard's  grew  of  white  mushroom, 

With  velvet  mosses  ; 
And  feathery  fern  its  pliant  stamen  tosses, 
To  the  soft  daliance  of  the  waving  breeze  ; 

And  with  the  wealth  of  these, 
Grouping  among  translucent  water  weeds, 

Like  stringed  beads ; 
Bright  prism-colored  shells, 
Those  water  sounding  bells, 
Within  whose  radient  cells, 
With  voice  most  soft, 
Some  fairy  oft 


82  MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEMS. 

Full  many  a  tale  of  ocean  tells. 
And  reach'd  the  orchard's  wealth  of  snowy  bloom, 

Where  with  perfume, 
My  youthful  sense  grew  glad  ; 

A  joy  so  sweet — yet  sad — 
Thus  all  the  joys  I  ever  knew, 

Were  tinged  with  that  peculiar  hue, 

Of  pleasant  gloom ; 
Like  roses  blooming  o'er  a  tomb. 
I  sought  where  mid  the  apple  boughs, 

And  snow-white  blows, 
Hid  by  a  woof  of  dark  green  leaves  ; 
Blithe  robin  red-breast, 

In  dark  brown  vest, 

« 

His  feathered  temple  weaves  ; 
In  sooth  I  thought 
The  builder  bird 
A  fairy  net-work  wrought, 
Of  rarest  masonry. 

And  when  I  heard, 
His  sky  born  melody, 
That  like  a  flood  of  rippling  sound, 
Woke  all  the  echoes  round  ; 
While  sporting  in  the  sunset's  glow, 
My  youthful  wonder  sought  to  know, 

Whence  without  control, 
Did  those  gleeful  numbers  roll, 

That  he  would  pour  with  all  his  soul  ? 
Sang  he  of  distant  goal, 


MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES.  83 

Or  memory-cherished  climes  ; 
Where  softest  chimes,       , 
Of  music-murmuring  streams, 
Fall  on  the  ear  a  'transing  sound ; 
And  where  like  starry  beams, 
Or  snow  flakes  falling  round : 
The  beauteous  bridal  rose, 
In  tender  fragrance  blows  ? 
But  childhood's  sinless  hours  are  gone, 

Its  dreams  forever  fled ; 
The  bird  from  apple  bough  has  flown, 

And  the  happy  scene  is  speed : 
For  I've  left  the  haunts  that  my  childhood  knew, 

And  the  silent  distances  of  blue  ; 
Full  many  a  veil  of  tissuey  hue, 

Have  cast  o'er  weary  leagues  between, 
And  shut  from  sight  the  haunting  scene. 


A  PORTRAIT. 

Aye  ;  it  is  fair,  e'en  as  the  brow  of  night's 
Pale  regent,  whose  enchanted  beams  stole  down, 
The  Latmian  hills  of  old,  and  charm'd 
Endymeon's  heart  to  joy  and  paphean  dreams. 

Upon  that  pale  young  brow  bright  intellect 
Sits  enthrone'd — where  glowing  thought  oft  breaks 
Its  deep  repose,  those  azure  eyes  illume. 
And  on  the  parian  forehead  smooth  and  white, 


84  MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEMS. 

In  gentle  dalliance  -with  the  wooing  winds, 

Now«doat  in  careless  grace  soft  silken  locks 

Of  jetty  hair;  while  round  the  classic  mouth, 

A  smile  as  pleasant  as  the  looks  of  angels' 

Lingers  still.     And  through  those  lit  eyes  come 

From  the  far  holy  of  the  soul's  pure  deeps, 

Those  clear  translucent  floods  of  spirit-light 

E'en  as  the  stars — are  pure,  and  beautifully  bright. 

While  over  all  a  mournful  beauty  hangs, 

A  pensive  joy — like  to  the  mellow  gloom, 

That  round  the  lofty  woods  sad  autumn  casts. 

And  yet  these  varied  charms  with  conscious  pride  are 

blent, 

Which  on  that  brow  as  nobly  sits, 
As  would  a  god  upon  a  skyey  throne  ! 
Oh  !  'tis  a  face  love  fain  would  recollect, 
And  memory  clasp  as  with  a  circean  spell ; 
The  enraptur'd  soul  of  Phidias  would  glow 
With  inspirations  new  and  beautiful, 
Could  he  but  gaze  upon  those  lineaments  divine  ; 
And  all  of  which  dear  friend,  are  purely,  truly  thine. 


GENIUS. 

Celestial  gift !  thy  light  is  cast  around  afac 
Like  the  etherial  blaze  of  an  undying  star 


MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES. 


85 


From  age  to  age  thine  influence  pure  is  given, 
Oh  !  thou  of  powers  divine  ;  fair  child  of  heaven  ' 
Wandering  alone,  along  the  halls  of  time, 
In  this  our  mundane  sphere — life's  transcient  clime. 

Thou  com'st  methinks,  on  holy  mission  sent, 
With  patient  zeal  and  most  sublime  intent, 
Around  thy  shrine  in  willing  homage  bows, 
A  wond'ring  world,  while  round  thy  lofty  brows 
Are  twined  bright  laurel  wreaths  of  fame, 
Whose  clarion  tones  proclaim  a  deathless  name. 

But  who  amid  earth's  multitudes  can  comprehend, 
The  mighty  striving  of  thy  spirit — or  shall  blend 
Their  souls  with  thine  ? — there  is  no  second  self 
Thy  thoughts  to  mirror  back — shall  sordid  pelf, 
Lean  avarice — self-loving  interest,  and  worldly  gains, 
Forever    all   absorb    men's    hearts,   and    souls,   and 

brains  ? 

Alas  !  for  thee,  oh,  genius  ! — 'tis  thy  peculiar  lot, 
Ne'er  to  be  wholy  known,  or  e'er  forgot — 
A  voice  methinks  I  hear  from  distant  ages, 
Have  ye  not  heard  of  it,  oh  !  ye  bards  and  sages  ? 
Upon  the  soul  it  flings  a  dreamy  spell, 
Mournful  and  strange  as  the  sound  farewell ; 
Yet  are  its  tones  prophetic — they  seem  to  sigh 
Alone,  alone  ;  as  if  thy  destiny — 
In  solemn  grandeur  wrapt  and  pleasing  gloom, 
Was  told  in  those  sad  words  of  doom. 
Ah !  strangely  fearful  words — they  will  express 
Of  all  thy  woes  the  cause — earth-sickness  and  distress. 


86  MRS.    MUNDAY-S   POEMS. 

Hark !  that  voice — as  from  the  past  I  hear  its  solemn 

tone, 

*'  Link  divine  ;  'twixt  Deity  and  man,  live  thou  alone  !" 
Proud  in  the  isolation  of  thy  soul, 
Art  thou,  oh,  Genius  !     Where  is  thy  spirit's  goal  ? 
Ko  sympathies  there  are  to  bind  thee  to  the  earth, 
In  this  our  twilight  being,  there  is  a  chilly  dearth 
Of  thought  and  feeling — there  is  no  spirit-ear 
Amidst  the  multitude  like  thine,  attun'd  to  hear 
The  silvery  music  of  each  glittering  sphere, 
Or  whisper'd  melodies  of  the  eternal  thought, 
With  which  the  rushing  winds  and  roaring  storms  are 

fraught ; 

No  mental  eyes  to  see  the  things  that  burn, 
In  the  fair  radiance  of  truth,  which   thy  clear  eyes 

discern, 

Fearfully  gifted  is  this  child  of  heaven, 
Wrestling  to  fulfill  his  mighty  mission  given ; 
Of  all  shades  of  feeling — his  life  is  a  story 
From  lowest  shame,  to  loftiest  glory. 
He  hath  drained  the  fountains  of  all  earthly  lore, 
And  yet,  unsatisfied  in  soul,  still  sighs  for  more  ; 
And  oft  in  his  sweet  dreamy  musing  hours, 
He   stoops    to   hear   the    silent    hymn    of   dreaming 

flowers, 

Then  soars  on  spirit  wings  beyond  each  shining  star, 
From  whence  his  sacred  lore  and  wisdom  comes  afar. 
From  the  conflicting  interests  of  mankind  apart, 
He  hath  composed  in  his  scant  garret  a  brief  chart, 


MISCELLANEOUS   PIECES.  87 

Of  love  and  death,  and  hope,  and  fame — 'tis  life's 

history, 
A  dark,  yet  glorious,  sublime  and  subtle  mystery. 

With  stately  step  he  comes  through  the  long  night 
Of  ages  dead  where  wept  its  mildew  blight ; 
Dark  superstition,  that  topas  of  the  mind, 
Wrapt  in  his  thoughts  stupendous — amid'st  markind 
Is  heard  his  seer-like  voice — his  immortal  songs 
Have  broke  the  night  of  ignorance  which  long 
Hung  like  an  incubus  upon  the  minds  of  men, 
Chasing  the  sombre  clouds  away,  as  when 
Aurora  blushes  at  the  gates  of  morning  skies 
In  rosy  splendors. 

No  more  shall  despots  rise, 
To  chain  his  struggling  spirit — what  though  their  links 

may  bind 

His  free-born  limbs — the  fetterless  mind, 
O'er  leaping  earth,  borne  on  the  wings  of  thought  shall 

soar 

Back  to  its  native  realm,  where  long  before, 
Bloom'd  the  pure  soul  in  everlasting  day, 
Ere  yet  its  spirit-wings  had  pass'd  away. 
Hence  his  dreams  of  a  brighter  existence, 
Of  boundless  glories  beyond  the  distance, 
Of  time  and  space  where  deathless  bowers, 
Weep  dews  immortal. 

By  divinest  powers, 
Were  not  these  radient  visions  given  him  ?     Hence, 


88  MRS.    MUNDAY'S    POEMS. 

His  lore  intuitive  and  mystic  wisdom.     Hence, 

His  dreams  of  the  soul's  freedom  for  which  he  deeply 

longs, 

Does  he  not  breathe  it  in  his  plaining  songs, 
The  inspiration  that  his  soul  had  caught, 
The  power  and  lightning  flashes  of  deep  thought, 
Gushed  from  the  fountians  of  eternal  truth, 
Whose  heavenly  streams  shall  yield  immortal  youth. 
Oh,  light  divine  !  what  but  for  thee, 
Must  this  dark  world  have  been  ? — its  misery 
Hast  thou  not  turn'd  to  joy  and  raised  from  glogm 
Our  hearts — strewing  with  flow'rs  of  hope  the  lethean 

tomb. 

New  tones  thou'st  given  unto  the  spirit's  lyre, 
And  brought  from  heaven  its  celestial  fire, 
Warming  to  light,  and  life,  and  loveliness  the  earth, 
With  form  of  ideal  beauty  and  of  heavenly  birth. 

The  tones  majestic  of  great  Milton's  lyre, 
Have  we  not  heard,  and  felt  our  hearts  grow  still- 
expire  ? 

When  the  immortal  Handal  and  Mozart, 
Pour'd  their  wild  anthems  o'er  the  Alpine  hills, 
Was  there  e'er  one,  who  in  his  inmost  heart, 
By  its  wild  throbbing  and  its  burning  thrill, 
Felt  not  they  were  celestial  and  echoing  still, 
Through  the  blue  deep  from  the  far  lyres  of  heaven, 
It  seem'd  a  concert  by  the  seraphs  given, 
Born  and  dying  at  the  mighty  minstrel's  will. 


MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES.  89 

Thou  speak 'st.  Oh,  Genius  !  the  heritors  of  ages 
We  become,  as  we  unfold  their  mouldering  pages, 
The  mists  of  time  roll  back,  and  the  thick  dust 
Which  on  the  noble  dead  had  gathered  with  the  ru$ 
Of  years,  are  scatter'd — and  we  feel  within  us  burn 
Our  hearts,  when  we  hear  that  in  the  urn 
Of  the  hoary  past  lie  heroes,  martyrs,  sages 
Wrapt  in  the  somber  gloom  of  distant  ages, 
In  mental  vision  do  we  not  see  them  pass 
Along  the  stream  of  time  a  glorious  mass; 
the  noblest  part  of  life's  fraternity, 
Leaving  a  glory  lasting  as  eternity. 
Years  lay  dreamily  and  chill  upon  the  past, 
Enrapt  in  gloom  a  dark  chaotic  waste, 
Until  thou — oh !  radient  one,  with  visions  bright, 
Upon  its  ample  page  didst  shed  a  light. 
To  thee,  the  past  unfolds  its  mysteries, 
And  crumbling  monuments,  and  histories 
Of  lost  races — ruins  of  earth  and  thrones 
Demolished — dynasties  extinct — unknown 
Nations,  with  all  the  giant  wrecks  of  time, 
Which  still  exist  in  every  land  and  clime, 
Have  been  from  darkness  and  the  engulphing-  past, 
By  thy  superhuman  power  to  light  restored  at  last. 
Majestic  are  thy  works,  oh,  Genius !  by  thine  aid, 
Weeping  humanity  is  comforted  and  staid. 
Thou  strik'st  the  lyre  ;  thy  radient  eyes, 
Full  of  the  mysticisms  of  the  skies, 
Beyond  the  rolling  spheres  is  heavenward  bent ; 


90  MRS.  MONDAY'S  POEMS. 

While  floating  through  thy  mind  are  dim  presentiment 

Of  a  majestic  destiny  for  all  thy  race, 

When  the  glad  earth  shall  rest  in  harmony  and  peace. 

vVhen  order,  from  disorder  shall  have  sprung, 

And  joy  shall  reign  of  which  the  angel's  sung. 

We  hear  thy  burning  songs,  and  now 

We  feel  we  are  immortal — hast  not  thou 

Link'd  time  with  eternity  ?     Chosen  thou  art 

To  enter  the  most  holy  place  ;  thy  great  heait 

.Is  full  of  inspiration,  while  to  us  is  given, 

A  palmy  joy — a  living  sense  of  heaven. 

Nearer  to  earth  seem  its  celestial  plains, 

As  wrapt  we  listen  to  thy  lofty  strains, 

Sublime  and  sweet  as  songs  of  Paradise, 

When  at  Aurora's  birth  in  orient  skies, 

Hesperus  led  the  morning  stars,  whose  song 

Exulting  broke  the  stillness  of  creation.     Among 

Yon  wheeling  orbs — the  eternal  music  rings  ; 

Genius,  thou  hearest,  great  interpreter  of  things 

Most  holy — by  thy  hand-maid  Art  we  view 

Images  most  fair,  and  of  prismatic  hue, 

We  feel  a  subtle  spirit  of  delight 

Transfuse  our  frames — visions  of  light 

Dart  through  the  mind,  as  oft  we  gaze 

Upon  the  glorious  arts  of  other  days. 

Moments  there  are  when  the  impassion'd  soul 

Would  burst  its  prison,  and  without  control 

Stretch  forth  its  youthful  wings,  and  hence 

Clothed  in  aromal  robes  commence. 


MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES.  91 

Angel ;  alas  !  'tis  but  a  phantasy — a  dream  ; 
A  glimpse — a  drop  of  the  celestial  dew, 
That  we  have  tasted — a  joy  intense  and  new. 


THE   WANDERING   SHIP. 

The  following  Poem  was  suggested  by  a  notice  in  "Scott's 
Weekly  Paper,"  of  a  ship,  which,  having  been  abandoned  and  set 
on  fire,  sailed  the  distance  of  two  thousand  miles  without^  man 
on  board.  She  hailed  from  New  Brunswick — was  discovered  off 
Cape  Clear,  and  towed  into  Cork. 

Lo  !  where  upon  the  seas  in  outlines  dim, 

Some  spectral  form  begirt  with  feathery  spray  j 

Along  the  horizon's  encircling  rim, 
Floats  proudly  on  its  solitary  way. 

But  look  again  !  as  nearer  still  it  glides, 

A  stately  barque  now  meets  the  yearning  view  ; 

How  gracefully  the  billowy  deep  she  rides, 

Through  veils  of  wreathing  fog  and  vapors  blue. 

Proudly  aloft  her  towering  masts  arise, 

And  yet  no  helms-man  bold,  or  pilot  brave, 

Or  flowing  sails,  now  greet  our  wondering  eyes — 
No  signal  colors  from  her  mast-head  wave. 

"  No  dread  alarms  on  the  rent  air  float," 
Or  shouts  of  woe,  or  wailings  of  despair  ; 


92 


MRS.    MUNDAT'S   POEMS. 


No  booming  gun,  or  soul-awakening  note, 
Of  warning  bell — all,  all  is  silent  there. 

And  yet  how  lightly — buoyantly  she  sweeps, 
Across  the  wildering  waste  of  waters  drear  ; 

As  doth  a  bird  that  cleaves  ethereal  deeps, 
No  hand  ^o  guide,  no  eye  to  steer. 

Or  like  some  lone  and  isolated  soul, 

Without  or  friends  or  home,  striving  to  gain 

Some  island  heaven  of  rest,  some  peaceful  goal, 
'Midst  the  cold  surges  of  life's  dark  domain. 

A  fearful,  pleasing  sight,  that  silent  barque, 
As  nearer,  yet  more  near,  she  draws  to  view  ; 

Abandoned  to  the  surging  billows  dark, 
Bereft — alone  to  stray  without  a  crew. 

Why  alone  and  tenantless  go'st  thou  forth  ? 

Tell  us,  what  secrets  doth  thy  breast  contain ; 
To  the  ice  mountains  of  the  rock-bound  north, 

Art  bound  thou  barque  ?  or  to  the  southern  main  ? 

But  look  within  ;  what  meets  the  startled  sight  ? 

Ruin  hath  left  its  awful  impress  there  ; 
'Tis  dark  and  silent  as  a  moonless  night, 

And  looks  a  very  symbol  of  despair. 

Who  hath  wrought  this  deed  of  desolation  ? 

And  whither  have  thy  wretched  inmates  flown  ? 
Here  havoc  sits  enthroned — and  desolation 


MISCELLANEOUS   PIECES.  «3 

Hovers  round ;  yield,  oh,  barque !  some  answering 
tone. 

Who  hath  despoiled  thee  of  thy  treasures  vast  ? 

Thy  gold  and  gems,  and  trappings  beautiful  ? 
Thy  streamers  proud,  that  round  about  thy  masts 

Waved  to  the  ocean  breeze  ? — thy  blacken'd  hull. 

In  chilling  gloom  responds  ;  methinks  thou'st  roam'd 

O'er  many  a  weary  league  of  ocean  ; 
Where   foam-plum'd   waves,   and    spray-wreath'<7 
breakers  comb'd 

Thy  lonely  deck,  while  to  the  beck'ning  motion 

Of  the  seas  thou'st  bent,  and  then  there  came 

Annihilation  grim  with  torch  of  fire  ; 
And  on  thy  gorgeous  walls  in  blasting  flame, 

Its  devastation  left — yet  could  not  tire. 

Thy  struggling  frame,  fiercer  and  wilder  still, 

As  if  to  mock  the  progress  of  decay  ; 
The  blight  swept  on— and  yet  o'er  many  a  hill 

Of  flashing  brine,  thy  noble  prow  made  way. 

And  plunging  waves  did  goad  thy  creaking  sides, 
Banners  of  flame  were  round  about  thee  furl'd; 

Yet  gallantly  thou'st  faced  the  roaring  tides, 
To  roam  alone  o'er  ocean's  shad'way  world. 

Thou'st  boldly  rode  before  the  whirlwind's  wrath, 
And  heeded  not  the  thunder-trumpet's  blaze; 


94 


MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEMS. 


Nor  raging  elements  in  their  battle-path, 
And  bid  defiance  to  the  lightning's  glare 

Then  speed  thee  on,  thou  wand'rer  of  the  deep, 
With  naught  to  cheer  before,  or  weep  behind  ; 

Thy  haven,  the  waves,  where  silver  moon-beams 

sleep, 
Thy  realm,  the  sea — thy  sails,  the  winged  wind. 

Thy  comrades— things,  that  in  thy  wake  shall  play, 
Thy  voices,  sounds — that  in  the  breakers  dwell, 

And  as  they  bare  thy  less'ning  form  away, 
Do  seem  to  moan  in  haunting  tones — farewell ! 


THE   MANIAC. 
"  Such  things  are." 

Hark !  that  wild  shriek — 'tis  borne  upon  the  gale, — 

It  is  a  frenzied  maiden's  fearful  wail ; 

That  voice  which  oft  gush'd  forth  in  sweetest  song, 

In  broken  tones  now  trembling  floats  along ; 

She  comes — behold  her — fading — dying, 

Her  withered  hopes  around  her  lying, 

Her  care-worn  cheek  now  faded  grown, 

Whose  roses  are  forever  flown. 

The  vacant  gaze  of  that  wild  eye, 

The  unsubdued  and  deep  drawn  sigh, 


MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES.  95 

The  transcient  flush  upon  her  cheek, 

The  clenched  hands — the  piercing  shriek, 

The  dark  brown  hair  dishevel 'd  now, 

With  straw  wreath  twin'd  around  her  brow, 

Her  rounded  form — her  graceful  air, 

Now  wan  and  wasted  by  despair, 

Tells  of  a  dark  and  deadly  strife, 

Within  her  breast  destroying  life. 

Now  seldom  does  the  tear  drop  start, 

Tho'  grief  is  wasting  her  young  heart ; 

Scorched  is  her  brain  by  phrenzy's  fire, 

Quench'd  in  her  heart  each  young  desire. 

Gone  is  that  light  elastic  tread, 

Wliich  scarcely  bent  the  violet's  head  ; 

Her  taper  ringers  in  despair, 

She  mingles  with  her  flowing  hair, 

She  plucks  and  gives  it  to  the  wind, 

(Fit  emblem  of  her  tortured  mind,) 

Which  oft  through  haunted  church-yard  raves, 

In  fitful  gusts  o'er  mouldering  graves. 

And,  as  in  Spring  young  tender  flowers, 

Oft  droop  beneath  the  weight  of  showers, 

Like  them  she  droops  the  vales  along, 

And  sings  anon  a  plaintive  song. 

E'en  now  I  hear  her  phrenzied  laugh, 

She's  deeply  drank  of  sorrow's  draught ; 

Upon  the  startled  air  it  rings, 

And  now  she  laughs — and  now  she  sings — 

It  tells  to  me  in  language  sad, 


96  MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEMS. 

Poor  child  of  sorrow,  thou  art  mad : — 
Song. 

They  call  me  crazed  and  simple  maid, 
And  ask  me  why  I  roam  ; 

And  me  they  cruelly  upbraid, 
As  oft  they  hear  me  moan. 

They  ask  me  why  my  pensive  song, 
When  heard  at  eve  is  sad ; 

They  hint  that  1  have  suffer'd  wrong, 
But  then — I  am  not  mad. 

Tis  true  this  riven  heart  of  mine, 
Will  never  more  be  glad  ; 

That  here  in  loneliness  I  pine, 
But  then — I  am  not  mad. 

I'm  weary  of  the  sounds  of  life, 
My  brain  is  hot — my  heart  is  sore  , 

When  will  the  mad'ning  fever  strife 
Of  my  rent  heart  be  o'er  ? 

Sweet  as  the  notes  of  the  dying  swan, 
In  mournful  melody  glides  on — 
That  voice — attun'd  in  happier  days, 
To  trembling  strings  or  saphic  lays ; 
But  now  she  starts  as  from  a  dream, 
I  hear  her  weep,  and  sob,  and  scream, 
She  sings  again,  all  wild  and  shrill, 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEilS.  97 

It  echoes  over  vale  and  hill : — 

Song. 

I  hear  the  scream  of  the^mountain  bird, 

And  the  howling  storm  at  sea  ; 
And  the  shriek  of  the  mighty  winds  are  heard 

Far  o'er  the  distant  lea. 

The  harsh  and  grating  thunders  roll, 

Along  yon  mountain  crag  ; 
Bat  wilder  horrors  wreck  my  soul, 

As  me  they  downward  drag, 

A  curse  is  on  my  wither'd  heart, 

A  sleepless  eye  is  mine ; 
I  pray  that  I  may  soon  depart, 

And  woe  and  care  resign. 

The  deep'ning  shades  of  twilight  fall, 

And  spread  around  a  sable  pall ; 

Forth  cornes  the  moon  in  vapory  shroud, 

Adown  the  sky  through  mist  and  cloud, 

And  now  her  shining  forehead  laves, 

In  the  clear  serene  of  ocean  waves. 

The  Maniac's  voice  is  hush'd  and  past, 

She  wanders  forth  amid  the  blast, 

Where  the  raven  cries  and  the  owlets  scream, 

'Neath  the  glim'ring  stars  that  faintly  gleam, 

She  grasps  within  her  hand  a  steel, 

'*  This — this  shall  all  my  sorrows  heal." 

(rt     ' 
i ^ 


98  MRS.   MUSCAT'S  POEMS. 

Then  with  a  wild  and  shriek-like  laugh, 

She  snaps  the  fatal  blade  in  half, 

"  Away  " — she  cries — "  thou  deathful  blade  " — 

And  flings  it  to  the  adjacent  glade. 

*  *  *  *  * 

She  starts — that  wild  and  bloodshot  eye, 

Is  turned  upon  the  earth — the  sky — 

"  Welcome  " — she  cries — "  thou  deep,  deep  sea, 

K  My  wasted  form  I'll  hide  in  thee ;" 

Then  with  a  madden'd  voice  she  cried 

Of  fell  despair  and  grief  allied, 

"  Ye  cavern'd  spirits  of  the  earth, 

"  Come  forth  with  all  your  fiendish  mirth, 

"  Ye're  not  more  fearful  in  your  arts, 

"  Than  the  fell  purposes  of  men's  hearts, 

"  O  !  bear  me  to  some  Lethean  wave, 

"  Where  -wretched  spirits  cease  to  rave, 

"  Exult  ye  in  my  sorrows  dire, 

"  I  shall  not  feel  your  vengeful  ire." 

Her  voice  grew  weak — its  piercing  tone, 

Now  sank  into  a  plaintive  moan  : 

"  Ye  spirits  of  yon  starry  realm, 

"  My  soul,  which  now  sad  griefs  o'erwhelm, 

"  Receive,  and  let  it  cleansed  be, 

"  From  earth-born  follies  ever  free, 

11  Possess'd  of  new  develop'd  powers, 

"  Roaming  through  Amaranthine  bowers, 

"  Through  azure  fields,  I'd  soar  afar, 

"  Through  the  cold  moon-beams  from  star  to  star, 


MISCELLANEOUS   PIECES.  99 

"  On  wings  of  silvery  light  I'd  fly, 

"  Through  the  rainbow  arches  of  the  sky, 

"  Where  flaming  worlds  in  ether  glow, 

"  And  Truth's  celestial  fountains  flow. 

"  Beyond  those  orhs  of  golden  ray 

"  Thrqugh  trackless  space  I'd  wing  my  way, 

"Till  I  reach'd  the  viewless  gates  of  heaven, 

"  Where  I  might  rest  and  be  forgiven. 

***** 

Sure  now  some  direful  purpose  she  intends, 

As  o'er  the  rocky  cliff  she  bends  ; 

She  flings  her  wasted  arms  on  high, 

While  dark  despair  gleams  in  her  eye  : 

"  Welcome  sweet  sea !  in  thy  oblivious  wave, 

•*  My  fevered  brow  and  faded  form  I'll  lave." 

A  sudden  plunge — one  shriek — the  scene  is  o'er — 

The  wretched  maiden  is  no  more. 

Amazed  the  startled  water  nymphs  survey'd 

The  stranger  who  thus  dar'd  their  halls  invade, 

And  music  from  her  pearly  shell 

Peal'd  forth  a  deep  and  solemn  knell, 

The  melody  of  chiming  waters  flow'd, 

From  rocky  steeps  to  dismal  depths  below, 

And  the  sullen  roar  of  the  dashing  surge, 

Sent  forth  in  leaden  sounds  a  dirge, 

The  Tritons  mourned  and  the  Naids  wept, 

While  the  maid  in  their  crystal  bowers  they  kept, 

The  Mermaid  braided  her  glossy  hair, 

With  her  cold  damp  fingers,  long  and  fair, 


100 


MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEMS. 


Her  tears  congeal'd  to  strings  of  pearl, 

With  which  she  entwin'd  each  clustering  curl, 

With  a  coral  wreath  she  bound  her  head, 

And  laid  her  on  an  amber  bed ; 

With  a  diamond  clasp  she  bound  her  hands, 

And  cover'd  her  o'er  with  golden  sands — 

And  thus  the  Mermaid  wept  and  sang, 

While  sweet  through  the  ocean-halls  it  rang. 

Hark  !  hear  her  song,  'tis  as  sweet  and  low 

As  the  Nymphs'  who  sing  in  the  sunset's  glow. 

"  Thou  art  laid  in  thy  silent  chamber  low, 

"  Where  the  flower-like  gems  of  ocean  grow. 

"  Sleep  on — within  our  crystal  cell, 

"  May  soft-winged  peace  around  thee  dwell." 

And  thus  the  Mermaid  sang  and  wept, 

While  calmly  and  deeply  the  maiden  slept. 

The  demi-gods  breath 'd  from  their  tinted  shell, 

To  the  death-cold  maid  a  long  farewell : 

"  Now  soft  and  sweet  is  the  maiden's  sleep, 

"  In  tears  no  more  shall  her  eyelids  steep  ; 

"  Thou  art  lull'd  forever  to  sweet  repose 

"  By  the  rocking  waves  that  over  thee  close  ; 

"  May  the  wrecking  of  ships,  and  the  mariner's  screams, 

"  Disturb  not  thy  long  night  with 'troublous  dreams; 

"  May  memory's  echo  never  fall, 

"  Upon  thy  glassy  watery  pall, 

"  But  in  these  pearly  vaults  so  low, 

"  Sad  earth-born  cares  thou  ne'er  shall  know, 

"  In  the  minowy  grottoes  of  the  sea, 


MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES.  101 

"  Shall  angel-quiet  reign  with  thee  ; 
"  Thy  marble  form  so  cold  and  white, 
"  Shall  rest  in  the  shades  of  oblivious  night. 
"  Sleep  on — fair  maid,  our  hollow  shell, 
"  In  liquid  sounds,  bids  thee  farewell ! 
"  Farewell !— farewell ! !" 


MY  NATIVE  LAND. 

There  is  a  radient  land  of  balmy  winds, 

Of  cloudless  climes,  blue  vales,  and  starry  skies, 

Where  from  sweet  lips,  and  lutns  low  music  sighs, 

And  o'er  the  pine  clad  hills  the  echo  dies 

Of  sparkling  stream,  that  chime  through  orange  bowers, 

And  tamvriad  trellis'd  vales,  where  blooming  lies 

The  prairie's  wealth  of  rainbow-tint'd  flowers 

Fair  smiling  children  these  of  genial  skies  and  golden  hours. 

Land  of  beauty  and  country  of  my  soul, 

Brave  hearts  have  striven,  and  true  ones  died  for  thee. 

.Land  where  the  stately  pine  groves  wave 

Where  softly  glows  the  sky  ; 
Land  of  the  beautiful  and  brave, 

Of  forests  wild  and  high . 

Oh !  blest  and  heav'n-gifted  clime, 

Well  may  thy  sons  be  brave  ; 
Where  Freedom's  eagle  soars  sublime — 

Her  starry  banners  wave. 

The  broad  streams  here  go  sweeping  by, 
Swift  rolling  to  the  sea  ; 


102  MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEMS. 

They  say  as  'twere  with  a  heaving  sigh, 
"  We  leave  the  home  of  the  free." 

Thy  sunny  plains — thy  vine-clad  hills, 
Thy  warm  and  tranquil  vales ; 

Thy  sombre  woods  so  dark  and  still, 
Tell  spirit-thrilling  tales — 

Of  many  a  one  whose  tameless  soul, 

Sought  the  deep  solitude  ; 
Whose  spirit  strong  and  uncontrol'd, 

Lov'd  independence  rude. 

Here  glides  "  La  Belle  Riviere  "  along, 
With  softly  murmuring  tide  ; 

Where  many  gallant  steamers  throng, 
In  majesty  and  pride. 

Along  thy  brinks  sweet  natal  stream, 
How  eft  I've  sought  to  cast ; 

lake  chaff  upon  the  winds,  each  dream, 
Of  all  the  wildering  past. 

But  no—  tho'  faded  is  the  flower, 

Its  fragrance  is  not  done ; 
So  upward  come  with  thrilling  power, 

Those  memories  one  by  one. 

And  here  of  old  in  his  bark  canoe, 
The  son  of  the  forest  brave  ; 


MISCELLANEOUS   PIECES. 

Skim'd  lightly  o'er  the  waters  blue, 
Fleet  as  the  foam-wreath'd  wave. 

Afar  thy  cloud-cap'd  mountains  soar, 

Like  a  giant  warrior  band ; 
Along  thy  streams — from  shore  to  shore, 

Their  brown  rocks  frowning:  stand. 

O 

How  beautiful  their  blue  knobs  rise, 
Like  ancient  battlements  they  seem ; 

Bear  they  no  message  from  the  skies — 
A  glimpse— a  hope — a  dream  ? 

Oh !  land  of  heroes,  song,  and  fame  ! 

May  Freedom's  eagle  fires ; 
Still  warm  and  wake  with  kindling  flame, 

Our  altars  and  our  lyres. 


103 


MUSINGS. 

Suggested  by  tfie  untimely  death  of  Thomas  Munday,  to 
whose  bereaved  parents  this  poem  is  respectfully  inscribed. 

Thou  art  gone  home  ;  oh !  early  crown'd  and  bless'd 
Thou  tak'st  our  summer  hence  ;  the  flow'r,  the  tone, 
The  music  of  our  being  all  in  one, 

Depart  with  thee ! — Mrs.  Hemans. 

Thou  art  passing  hence  glad  summer, 
With  all  thy  wealth  of  bloom ; 


104  MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEMS. 

And  many  an  earthly  treasure, 
Thou  bearest  to  the  tomb. 

Thou  tell'st  of  home-Elysian, 

Of  boundless  joys  divine  ; 
While  on  the  soul's  quick  vision, 

Its  fadeless  summers  shine. 

Unto  our  yearning  spirit-dreams, 
A  deathless  thirst  thou'st  giv'n  ; 

While  through  thy  sun-born  glories  float, 
Bright  imageries  of  heaven.  • 

Thus  list'ning  to  thy  melodies, 

Thy  rapt  and  breezy  lay ; 
Borne  on  thy  rosy  pinions, 

Our  darling  pass'd  away. 

No  more  thy  breath  sweet  summer, 
Shall  wave  his  shining  hair ; 

From  out  those  eyes  have  faded, 
The  light  that  sparkled  there. 

No  more  those  buoyant  footsteps, 
The  home-path  now  shall  wend ; 

Nor  with  songs  of  happy  children, 
That  missing  voice  shall  blend 

Too  wildly  loved — too  early  lost, 
Wert  thou  our  household's  pride , 

But,  oh  !  the  gulph  that  yawns  between — 
Dark,  fathomless  and  wide. 


MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES.  105 

If  in  thy  transient  wanderings, 

In  this  our  twilight  clime  ; 
Among  the  joy-born  blossoms, 

That  grace  the  brinks  of  Time. 

Thou  did'st  grow  weary — tell  us  ; 

Oh  !  tell,  our  angel  one ; 
Say  was  thy  soul's  brief  mission  fill'd— 

Thy  earthly  labor  done  ? 

If  so,  'twere  well  indeed  with  thee, 

Bright  heritor  of  heaven  ; 
No  scorpion  blight,  or  grief  was  thine, 

No  sin  to  be  forgiven. 

'Tis  ours  to  bear  the  heavy  chain, 

The  blight,  the  sting  to  know ; 
While  all  the  heart's  deep  fountains  gush, 

In  lava  streams  of  woe. 

We  call  on  thee,  fair  spirit-child, 

Is  there  in  heav'n  relief; 
For  this  our  bitter  sorrow, 

Our  dark  impotent  grief? 

Oh !  for  one  smile,  sweet  spirit, 

One  soft  responsive  tone  ; 
One  glance  from  those  lit  eyes  of  joy — 

Our  beautiful — our  own ! 

Now  softly  on  night's  pinions, 
Low  seraph  whispers  come  ; 


106  MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEM*. 

Of  hope  and  joy  they're  telling, 
In  yon  bright  angel  home. 

They  tell  that  thou  art  happy, 
And  bid  us  weep  no  more ; 

They  tell  that  we  shall  meet  again, 
Upon  that  summer  shore. 

While  through  the  calm  air  ripples, 
In  many  a  breezy  swell ; 

From  light  wings  gently  waving, 
An  angel's  soft  farewell ! 


To 


'''  Thou  hast  aroused  within  me  to  a  flame 
The  embers  that  had  lingered  ready  to  expire ; 
Thou'st  given  wings  unto  my  thirst  for  fame, 
And  waked  the  slumb'ring  music  of  mv  lyre ; 
And  I  would  wia  for  thee  a  deathless  name, 
That  men  should  worship  and  in  vain  desire." 

To  thee,  god  of  my  lyre,  and  shrine  of  holiest  thought 
I  dedicate  my  verse  with  in-born  music  fraught ; 
To  the  rich  glories  of  thy  mind  a  tribute  pay, 
And  at  thy  feet  Parnassian  garlands  lay. 
For  hast  thou  not  been  to  me  more  than  friend  ? 
And  through  the  midnight  of  my  soul  did'st  thou  nov 
send 


MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES. 


107 


To  pierce  the  gloom  a  pitying  ray  ? 
Like  starlight  o'er  a  wanderer's  way. 
Hast  thou  not  made  my  soul  a  sacred  shrine, 
And  wakened  to  a  flame  its  fires  divine  ? 

Hast  thou  not   sought    the  hidden   fountains   of   ruy 

heart  ? 

And  in  their  depths  dost  thou  not  share  the  angel  part  ? 
By  the  deep  sympathies  of  soul  divine, 
That  made  me  ever  and  forever  thine  ; 
By  the  high  unities  of  deathless  thought, 
By  the  blest  harmonies  of  heart  and  mind, 
Profound  and  full — refined  and  heaven-wrought ; 
By  the  strong  onenesses  that  bind, 
In  sweet  according  tones  the  deep  heart's  lyres ; 
To  thee,  forever  more,  shall  thrill  my  trembling  wires, 
Within  whose  tones  I'd  have  thee  live  when  I  am  cold, 
Smit  by  the  Stygean  wave  sin-born  of  old, 
That  'gainst  the  many-peopled  shores  of  Time  ; 
Upheaves,  where  oft  we've  heard,  with  deep  prophetic 

ear, 
Full  many  a  God-awakened  spirit  chime, 

Or  billowy  sound  of  life  profound  and  clear. 

*  *  *  *  * 

Was  it  not  ours  to  read — celestially  given — 
Eternity's  text-book,  the  star  written  heaven  ? 
And  oft  in  sweet  musings  and  spirit-wrought  dreanx, 
Have  we  not  strayed  by  those  classical  streams  ? 
Where  the  swains  of  Arcadia  awake  the  soft  flute, 
Ir»  gentle  complainings  to  Love's  tender  suit ; 


108  MRS.  MUNDAT'S  POEMS. 

We  have  basked  in  the  wealth  of  fair  Thessaly's  bowers, 
And  a  chaplet  have  twined  of  pale  daphne  flowers  ; 
A.  signet  of  soul — of  thought — and  of  worth, 
Sweet  boon  of  the  gods  to  the  gifted  of  earth ; 
We  have  dwelt  'neath  the  shades  of  Tempe's  sweet 

vales, 

And  quafPd  the  soft  breath  of  Ionian  gales  ; 
In  the  Pyrean  fount  together  we've  sought, 
A  soul-giving  draught  from  its  depths  to  have  caught ; 
We  have  roamed  through  the  ages  of  bronze  and  gold, 
And  talked  with  the  gods  in  the  temples  of  old. 

Then  oh !  may  the  spell,  so  spiritually  given, 

Ne'er  fade  from  my  heart,  or  by  cold  hands  be  riven. 

Oh !  light  of  my  life,  and  light  of  my  soul, 

Still  poiut  thou  the  way  to  some  Eden-goal ; 

Still  shine  on  my  heart  as  a  star  on  the  night, 

And  gild  my  dark  path-way  with  soul-halos  bright ; 

Like  aromas  of  roses  soft  floating  around, 

Thine  image  shall  dwell  in  my  soul's  far  profound ; 

And  bright  be  thy  day-dreams — while  o'er  thy  repose, 

May  kind  angels  gently  their  white  wings  close  ; 

Inspire  thy  wrapt  slumbers  with  visions  of  light, 

Till  that  last  sleep  shall  fold  thee  in  the  bosom  of  night 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES.  109 

PAGANINI. 

It  was  a  beautiful  sentiment  of  the  great  Italian  violinist, 
that  when  his  mother  died,  her  passing  spirit  took  possession  of 
his  violin,  inspiring  those  wizard  strains  that  have  charmed  the 
Korld. 

"  He  touched  his  harp,  and  nations  heard  entranced." — Pollock. 

Where  rolls  the  Tiber's  arrowy  tide. 

Beneath  Italia's  rosy  skies  ; 

Where  in  majestic  strength  and  pride, 

The  purple  Appenines  arise  ; 

And  where  the  tall  Laburnums  wave, 

And  cypress  groves  and  myrtle  bowers, 

In  Tyrrhene  deeps  their  shadows  lave ; 

And  spicy  winds  to  fadeless  flow'rs, 

Expiring  songs  are  whispering ; 

A  potent  master  minstrel  dwelt — 

A  genius  of  the  silver  string, 

Whose  wildering  notes  could  move  and  melt, 

(As  from  enchanted  chords  they  flew,) 

The  stern  and  cold,  the  warm  and  true ; 

And  with  a  joy  intense  and  new, 

Could  the  enraptur'd  soul  imbue. 

Cradled  among  the  classic  rills, 

How  soft  and  low,  then  wild  and  high, 

It  burst  along  the  Roman  hills, 

And  warbled  in  bending  sky. 

Not  in  that  gorgeous  clime  alone, 
Those  stirring  harmonies  were  heard  ; 
For  northern  lands  had  caught  the  tone 


MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEMS. 

Of  thy  deep  lyre,  thou  minstrel  bird  ; 

In  the  dark  pine  groves,  and  Alpine  homes, 

And  o'er  the  glacier's  icy  plains, 

Where  the  bounding  chamois  hunter  roams, 

Linger'd  those  spirit-thrilling  strains. 

Amidst  Ionian  isles  thy  strings 

Were  heard,  their  magic  sounds  prolong  d, 

In  wild,  sweet  music-murmurings, 

So  soft,  it  seem'd  those  notes  belong'd 

To  some  far  sphere  or  spirit-lyre  ; 

So  deep  the  billowy  music  came — 

The  breast  of  flame,  the  heart  of  fire, 

Those  syren  songs  could  soothe  and  tame. 

And  where  the  surging  Baltic  foams, 
Where  dread  Black  Forest's  caverns  frown, 
Where  Albion  rears  her  stately  domes — 
And  Occidental  suns  go  down, 
Beyond  Atlantic's  swelling  floods, 
On  Freedom's  eagle-banner'd  shore — 
Her  Indian  isles,  and  grand  old  woods — 
Those  melting  tones  awoke  once  more. 
Where  e'er  he  smote  the  sounding  chords, 
Rich,  pealing  harmonies  of  song,  N 

Gush'd  out  among  the  the  wondering  hords, 
That  swept  the  lofty  halls  along. 
Ripples  of  sound,  then  wave  on  wave, 
Of  liquid  melody  arose — 
Now  ravishing  and  sweet — then  grave, 
And  full,  as  gathering  water  flows  j 


MISCELLANEOUS   PIECES.  Ill 

Again  roll'd  on  those  notes  profound, 

As  the  hoarse  roar  of  falling  floods, 

Or  battling  sounds  that  shriek  around, 

In  sudden  bursts  thro'  distant  woods. 

Then  dying — falling— soft  and  low, 

As  angel^ voices  heard  in  dreams, 

Or  evening  winds,  that  gently  blow, 

O'er  dewy  vales  and  silver  streams. 

Oh !  whence  those  soul-subduing  strains ; 

Born  of  Apollo's  kindling  fires  ? 

Decending  from  celestial  plains, 

Some  seraph  o'er  the  tuneful  wires, 

Methinks,  hath  swept  its  golden  wings ; 

Whence  thy  power  ? — enchanter  tell  ? — 

Like  Passion's  dream,  that  wildly  flings 

Around  the  heart  its  circean  spell  ? 

There  comes  a  voice  through  distant  years, 

And  to  my  list'ning  soul  responds, 

Like  music  from  the  far  off  spheres, 

And  through  the  night  of  spirit  bonds 

Draws  near — it  is  the  minstrel's  own : — • 

"  A  mother's  voice  inspir'd  the  song, 

Her  soul's  deep  voice — her  spirit's  tone—. 

As  those  wild  harpings  gushed  along, 

Her  spirit  free  my  harp  possess'd, 

Breathing  electric  melodies ; 

Her  soul's  rich  harmonies  express'd, 

In  wild  unearthly  symphonies. 

When  weary  of  the  sounds  of  life, 


112  MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEMS. 

% 

Her  dust  sank  down  to  rest  at  last, 
From  earthly  discord,  pain  and  strife, 
And  being's  fitful  dream  was  past. 
Then  sweetly  from  each  quivering  string, 
Her  song  in  many  a  music-swell, 
Would  at  the  touch  enchantment  bring — 
The  master's  touch — she  loved  so  well." 
The  voice  is  hush'd — the  strings  are  rent- 
Cold  is  the  magic  master  hand ; 
The  wizard's  mystic  power  is  spent, 
That  only  could  those  tones  command. 


EPITHEL  AMIUM. 

There  is  a  mingling  of  sweet  tones  and  voices',         v 

Blent  with  the  dewy  fragrance  of  the  night ; 

So  wild  those  strains  as  when  the  soul  rejoices, 

With  iia  o'erflowing  fullness  of  delight. 

The  oM — the  young — a  happy  throng  is  there, 

Bright  lamps  and  dincin?  feet  and  garland  fair. 

Extract  from  an  unpublished  poem, 

Away !  to  the  festal  halls  to-night, 
For  youth  and  beauty  will  be  there ; 

Upon  whose  brows  the  radiance  bright, 
Is  yet  undim'd  with  care. 

Oh !  there  amid  the  halcyon  bow'rs, 

Is  one  with  eyes  of  light ; 
Go  twine  her  hair  with  orange  flow'rs, 

For  she  will  wed  to-night. 


MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES.  113 

Emblems  of  spotless  innocence, 

Of  purity  and  truth  ; 
A  richer  dower  than  gems  of  earth, 

She  brings  that  gallant  youth. 

From  her  soft  eyes  no  tear-drops  fall, 

His  brow  is  free  from  care  ; 
The  doubt  that  held  their  hearts  in  thrall, 

Shall  dwell  no  longer  there. 

Oh,  bliss  intense  !  oh,  holy  joy  ! 

When  willing  hearts  and  hands 
Seal  every  dear  and  whispered  vow, 

In  Hymen's  rosy  bands. 

Then  weave  of  joy,  a  rosy  chain, 

To  stay  the  gorgeous  hours  ; 
And  o'er  each  heart  let  gladness  reign, 

These  are  life's  summer  flowers. 


LYRI  c  s. 

Addressed  to  Theon. — 

I  bid  mine  image  dwell, 
(Oh !  break  not  then  the  spell,) 
In  the  deep  wood  and  by  the  fountain  side. 

Heman*. 
Straying  at  noon, 

Neath  bluest  skies  of  June  ; 


114  MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEMS. 

Amid  the  forest's  wealth  of  summer  bloom, 
Where  every  air  is  heavy  with  perfume  ; 
While  on  the  breezes  rippling  round, 
Accents  of  strange  sweet  wand'ring  sound, 
Come  whispering  by, 
Or  gently  nigh, 

.Echo  awakes  the  sound  of  distant  floods, 
Through  the  green  dimness  of  the  voiceful  woods  ; 
Then  oft  with  thoughts  of  thee  my  soul's  true  friend, 
To  some  still  nook  my  lonely  way  I  wend. 
Or  when  returning  from  his  fiery  chase, 
Along  the  purple  fields  of  space  j 
Titan  driven, 
His  golden  car, 
Adown  the  distant  heaven, 

Flashing  far ; 
Apollo  seeks  in  haste, 
The  rosy  charms, 
Of  Occident,  whose  bosom  chaste, 
Oft  glows  with  sweet  alarms  ; 
When  at  her  shrine, 
In  tones  divine ; 
Her  hunter-king, 
To  Love's  familiar  pleasing, 
Wakes  the  spheres'  sweet  lute, 
Soft  as  Arcadian  shepherd's  flute  ; — 
And  on  the  breezy  syllables  of  sound, 
Sweet  nature's  vespers  float  around. 
Then  with  the  soul, 


MISCELLANEOUS   PIECES.  115 

In  sweetest  harmony  of  tone, 

Without  control ; 

Wand'ring  alone, 

O'er  balmy  meads, 
Where  shpwers  of  summer  dew, 
Fall  down  like  silver  beads  ; 
'.NTeath  which  the  violets  blue, 

Like  angels'  eyes, 
Reflect  the  dewy  radiance  of  the  skies  ; 

With  sad  sweet  joy, 
Shrined  in  my  heart  dost  thou  my  secret  thoughts 

employ. 

Or  when  night's  stillnesses  prevail, 
Dim  spectral  forms  in  shadows  pale, 
Flit  through  the  pleasant  gloom  ; 
While  soft  the  locust's  bloom, 
Upon  the  night  breeze  flings, 
A  breath  of  painful  sweetness, 
Like  the  memory  of  things, 
On  the  waves  of  Time  departed ; 
And  in  their  fleetness, 

Sometimes  come, 
With  yearning  dreams  of  home, 
And  haunt  the  broken  hearted. 
Thus  oft  I  think  of  thee, 
My  soul's  bright  sanctuary. 
And  when  the  gentle  moon, 
Throughout  night's  quiet  noon, 
Along  the  Ithureal  plain 


116  MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEMS. 

Doth  lead  her  shining  train, 

Of  stairy  sisterhood ; 
While  glittering  round  a  flood, 

Of  radient  light, 

Lays  like  a  robe  about  the  queen  of  night. 
The  spirit-flame  then  more  serenely  burns  ; 
More  fondly  then  the  tender  bosom  yearns, 

For  loved  ones  gone, 

Or  absent  friends  : — 
'Tis  then  thy  spirit's  tone, 
A  sweet  enchantment  lends, 

To  memory's  ear, 
Profound — and  full — and  clear. 
And  oh !  how  oft,  sweet  orb, 
In  childhood's  elfin  hour, 
Thou  did'st  with  mystic  power, 
My  infant  mind  absorb. 
Thus  gazing  oft  on  thee, 
Thou  seem'st  a  beauteous  mystery ; 
And  I  did  sometimes  deem, 
Thou  wert  a  spirit's  dream, — 
Or  soul  of  bright  Evangel, — 

Or  alien  angel, 
By  powers  supernal  doomed  ; 

When  Eden  fair, 
In  pristine  beauty  bloom'd  ; — 
In  pale  and  mute  despair, 
To  wend  thy  silent  way ; 
With  no  responsive  beam — no  self-resembling  ray. 


MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES.  117 

Musing  alone  I  sit, 

While  through  the  night  halls  lit, 

With  angels'  eyes ; 

Some  spirit  sighs, 
Upon  the  perfumed  air — 
Like  some  lone  string, 
In  love-tones  whispering, 
Of  joyance  deep  and  visions  fair; 
Is  it  thy  soul's  deep  voice, 
That  bids  mine  own  rejoice  ? — 
Is  it  thy  spirit's  ray, 

That  from  afar ; 
Bends  o'er  my  twilight  way, 
A  lone  and  guiding  star  ? — 
And  will  thy  soul  upon  that  shore  divine, 
Yet  know  and  speak  to  mine  ? 
Oh  !  will  these  raptures  spirit-born, 
Illume  the  soul  upon  that  glorious  morn  ? 
And  shall  these  joys  there  be  complete  ? 
Or  is  it  but  a  passing  gleam  ? 

And  brief  as  sweet, — 

A  thought — a  dream — 

The  spirit  of  a  spell, 
That  in  my  bosom's  infinite  must  dwell  ? 
Again  I  bend  mine  ear, 
To  catch  those  seraph  whispers  dear ; 
While  through  the  still  profound, 
No  murmur  wakes  around ; 
Save  in  the  vale  remote, 


118  MRS.    MUNDAY->S   POEMS. 

Sad  philomelas  lonesome  note, 

With  ceaseless  woe, 
Floats  on  ^Eolean  whispers  low. 
Now  comes  a  dream  of  tender  memories  o'er  me, 
When  wrapt  in  silken  bonds  of  spirit  sympathy, 
United  oft  in  by-gone  hours, 
'Neath  Silvia's  pleasant  bowers, 
Together  we  have  sought, 
The  fane  of  deathless  thought. 

The  time  is  past — 

Those  joys  are  flown ; 
While  on  Life's  changing  surges  vast, 
Afar  from  me  thy  bark  floats  on — 
1   While  like  a  bird  that's  on  the  wing, 
'Tis  mine  in  other  bowers  to  sing, 

Or  sad  or  gay, 
My  gothic  roundelay ; 
But,  Theon,  when  upon  thy  way, 
Thou  seek'st  some  spirit's  kindred  ray, 
Then  cast  a  lingering  look  behind, 
And  think  of  one  whose  soul  and  mind, 
To  thee  will  like  the  magnet  turn, 
And  oft  with  tearful  vision  yearn, 
For  that  sweet  converse  of  the  soul, 
Which  then  was  often  ours, 

Without  control, 

In  summer  evening's  pleasant  hours ; 
And  may  the  memory  of  those  days, 
Float  round  thy  heart  like  ruby  rays, 


MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES.  H9 

Of  sundown  glories  ; 
And  as  thy  mind  oft  backward  flees, 
From  present  care  to  some  bright  spot ; 

Then  turn  again, 

To  Friendship's  fane, 

Forget  it  not. 


SONGS    OF    WAR. 

No.  1. 
THE  DEPARTURE. 

All  are  gone  forth— and  of  that  all,  how  few, 
Perhaps  return.  Sardanapalut. 

There  is  a  radient  land  of  balmy  winds, 
Of  cloudless  climes,  mild  seas,  and  starry  fkies, 
Where  Pleasure's  syrens  oft  the  wand'rer  binds, 
And  from  sweet  lips,  and  lutes  low  music  sighs, 
And  o'er  the  pine  clad  hills  the  echo  dies 
Of  spirkling  streams— th  it  caime  thro'  orange  bow'rs, 
And  timarind  trellis'd  vales,  where  blooming  liea 
The  prairies  wealth  of  rainbow-tinted  flowers, 
Fair  smiling  chil'ren  these,  of  genial  skies  and  golden  houra. 

Haik ! — that  pealing  sound ! — 'tis  the  shrill  trumpet's 

note, 

The  forest-hills,  and  peaceful  vales  along— 
And  wild  alarums  on  the  rent  air  float; 
War's  tocsin  rolls — the  northern  hills  prolong 
The  startling  sound — the  sword  unsheath,  be  strong — 
Our  country  calls — "  To  Arms!" — young  soldier,  rise— 
"  Away  " — thro'  hall  or  bow'r,  where  Hope's  bland 

song 

Hod  whispered  Paphean  joys,  the  dread  war-cries, 
O'er  the  broad  land  resounds,  and  through  the  bending 

skies. 

(121) 


122  MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEMS. 

We  saw  in  pride  depart,  that  battle  host ; 
The  good,  the  brave,  the  gen'rous  and  the  true ; 
The  old,  the  young — aye  !  those  we  lov'd  the  most ; 
We  felt  their  warm  hands'  clasp,  and  beard  their  last 

adieu. 

Oh !  who  can  tell  if  o'er  the  sad  eyes'  hue, 
Would  ever  steal  the  tears  of  joy  at  their  return  f 
In  dreams  we  see  them  yet — their  shad'wy  forms 

pursue — 

Say  is  it  vain  for  them  that  our  hearts  burn- 
Will  they  not  heave  a  sigh,  and  for  their  bright  homes 

yearn  ? 

Oh!  there  were  partings  dread,  young  cheeks  grew 

pale, 

And  long  adieus  were  told  with  streaming  eyes ; 
And  there  were  ringing  hands,  and  many  a  wail — 
Low  faltering  words — and  tearful  sobs — and  sighs, 
From  woman's  heart,  with  childhood's  shrieking  cries, 
Burst  forth. — The  low  winds  rose  with  gentle  swell, 
And  bore  the  wail  along  the  tranquil  skies, 
Till  soft  and  low  the  mournful  cadence  fell, 
Blending  and  dying  with  the  sound — Farewell ! 


SONGS   OF  WAR.  123 

No.  2. 
THE  MARCH. 

I  knew  'twas  a  trumpet's  note, 

And  I  see  my  brethren's  lances  gleam  ; 

And  their  pennons  wave  by  the  mountain  stream, 

And  their  plumes  to  glad  winds  float. — Hemana. 

I  dwelt  in  a  grand  old  home,  -whose  sea-girt  walls 

Rose  like  some  tower  of  olden  time  ; 

Columns  of  marble  strength  adorn'd  its  halls, 

While  perfum'd  light,  with  music  circean  chime, 

Stole  up  midst  rosy  lamps  and  forms  sublime, 

Of  alabaster  mould ;  and  the  low  sound 

Of  martial  strains,  blent  with  the  ocean's  hymn ; 

As  on  the  frowning  rocks  grey,  cold  and  ivy-crown'd 

The  wild  waves  roar'd  with  fearful  bound. 

The  pale  round  moon  wept  down  her  silver  light, 

Where  slept  an  army's  strength  all  hush'd  and  still : 

And  the  sentry  lone,  with  bayonet  bright, 

Still  kept  his  weary  watch — while  cold  and  chill, 

The  wet  dews  hung  o'er  tent  and  vale  and  hill, 

While  far  thro'  chap'rell  groves,  the  -watch-dog  bay'd 

The  wolf; — where  wrapt  in  past  or  future  ill, 

By  Nuces'  falling  floods,  'neath  the  palm-tree's  shade, 

With  folded  arms  in  gloom  some  lone  Camanche  stray'd. 

Hush'd  -was  the  night,  and  calm  the  sky-lit  bay ; 
The  drill  was  done — the  song,  the  dance  was  o'e*. 


124  MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEMS. 

Upon  the  shad'wy  wave  in  mute  array, 

The  starry  host  look'd  down — and  near  the  shore, 

A  thousand  masts  reposed — the  flashing  oar 

No  murmurs  woke — and  loos'd  the  white  sails  hung; 

While  through  the  dreamy  vales  and  blue  seas  o'er, 

The  incense-breathing  airs  their  odors  flung — 

Oh !  fairest  land  that  ever  patriot  loved,  or  poet  sung. 

But  hark  ! — is  that  the  sound  of  seas  I  hear  ? — 

Or  trump  and  prancing  steed  and  reveille  drum  ? — 

That  rous'd  from  flaming  dreams  of  sword  and  spear, 

The  slumbering  soldier  ? — Lo  !  where  in  terror  dumb, 

The  foe  retires — our  arm'd  legions  come  ! 

With  banners  proud  and  streaming  pennons  white, 

And  hurried  steed — car — mortar  and  bomb ; 

While  their  lances  gleam  ,in  the  rosy  light, 

Like  stars  that  dance  on  the  glittering  seas  at  night. 

Like  the  phantom  forms  of  a  warrior's  dream, 
In  martial  pride  our  wheeling  squadrons  pass  ; 
O'er  scorching  plains,  wild  hills,  and  rocky  streams, 
Through  tangled  beds  of  cactus  green,  or  dark  morass ; 
There  the  spotted  snake  in  the  tall  rank  grass, 
With  deadly  fangs  in  fearful  beauty  lies. 
But  where  are  they — that  army  vast  ? — Alas  ! 
The  proud  hills  rise  between,  e'er  the  crimson  dies 
Of  early  Hesperus  fades  from  eastern  skies. 


SONGS   OP   WAR.  125 

No.  3. 
Rio  GRANDE. 

The  battle  gathers.like  a  storm.    Soon  shall  ye  hear  the  roar 
of  death. — Ossian, 

Look  !  where  upon  the  seas  the  tow'ring  masts, 
Unfurl 'd  their  banners  to  the  low  winds  bland, 
Where  throng'd  the  shores  two  armies  vast  ; 
And  the  dark  waters  of  the  Rio  Grande, 
Boom'd  thro'  the  hills,  while  far  along  the  strand, 
In  must'ring  troops  our  fierce  battalion  flew ; 
Grimly  the  war-god  smil'd — o'er  the  hot  sand, 
Dread  carnage  stalk'd.     Ah !  there  were  those  who 

drew, 
E'en  from  their  death-pangs,  inspiration  new. 

And  there  were  those  whose  every  thought, 

Of  grief,  or  joy,  or  wish  that  life  inspired ; 

Or  hope  sublime,  from  glory's  throbbings  caught, 

Or  deed  of  good,  or  ill,  or  aught  the  soul  desired, 

In  one  dread  moment  rush'd — and  wildly  fir'd 

The  glazing  eye. — And  there  was  one  who  bleeding  lay, 

Whose  thoughts  of  home  in  one  deep  sigh  expired ; 

While  by  his  native  streams,  unconscious  play 

His  orphan  children — and  the  lone  mother  kneels  to 

pray- 
That  he,  their  dying  sire,  might  yet  return. 
Still  from  affections  cells  no  tearful  lavas  gush'd, 


126  MRS.    MUNDAY'S    POEMS. 

Although  with  seas  of  grief  his  dim  brain  burn'd  ; 
But  all  at  once  as  from  that  proud  heart,  crush 'd, 
The  crimson  life-stream  flow'd — the  moan  was  hush'd — 
The  spirit-flame  expir'd. — There  is  a  goal 
Where  the  brave  triumph,  thither  hath  he  rush'd, 
Beyond  where  the  dark  waters  of  oblivion  roll, 
On  deathless  wings — thence  flew  the  lightning  soul. 

And  moans  and  shrieks,  and  curses  of  despair, 
With  shouts  and  savage  yells,  and  piercing  cries, 
Along  the  squadrons  rent  the  scorching  air, — 
And  many  a  glance  from  dying  eyes, 
Would  seem  to  say  that  on  their  native  skies, 
They  fain  would  look  once  more,  until  afar, 
The  din  of  arms,  upon  his  faint  ear  dies — 
While  wringing  lance — flying  steed  and  rolling  car, 
Blend  with  the  thunders  and  the  storm  of  war. 


SONGS   OP  WAR.  127 

No.  4. 
!•  ALO  ALTO  '.'  „ 

As  a  hundred  winds  in  Lochlin's  grove*— 
As  fire  in  the  pines  of  a  hundred  hills — so  loud — 
So  ruinous — so  vast — the  ranks  of  men  hewn  down. 
Farewell! — thou  bravest  of  men !  thou  conqueror 
In  the  field ! — But  the  field  shall  see  thee  no  more— 
Nor  the  dark  wood  be  lighted  with  the  splendor 
Of  thy  steel. — Thou  hast  left  no  son. — Future 
Time  shall  hear  of  thee — and  the  song  shall 
Preserve  thy  name. — Ossian. 

And  here  o'er  Palo  Alto's  crimson  plains, 
Now  let  us  pause  ; — 0  !  muse  of  tiagic  song — 
And  o'er  the  brave — the  lov'd — the  early  slain— 
Awake  the  lyre — in  tears  the  strain  prolong. 
Who  with  the  brave  the  lurid  field  along, 
Can  fill  thy  place,  O  Chief  in  war  ? — Who  dare 
What  ne'er  thine  eagle  eye  or  spirit  strong 
Could  tame  ? — Who  cope  with  thee  in  battle's  glare  ?— 
Save   he,   the   bold  Dragoon   of  flaming  sword   and 
streaming  hair. 

There  amid  the  lightning  flash  of  steel, 

And  the  deep  booming  of  artillery, 

Where  long  and  loudest  was  the  deafning  peal 

Of  the  dark,  war-storm  and  wing'd  victories, 

On  chariot-wheels  roll'd  through  the  flashing  sea, 

Of  blood  and  fiery  deaths — a  mighty  star — 

Went  out  from  war's  red  firmament — he 

That  fought  with  the  proudest  steed  and  flying  car, 


128  MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEMS. 

The  laurel'd  Chief,  far  famed  in  Seminola's  war. 

He  fell ! — But  why,  or  wherefore,  who  can  tell  ? 

Time,  the  destroyer,  in  his  deathward  course, 

Yields  no  reply — but  onward  sweeps  to  swell 

The  gulph  of  ruin. — Yes,  rider  and  horse 

Have  fall'n — and  bravely,  too — without  remorse  ; 

For  when  he  felt  away  the  life-drops  run, 

Nor  did  his  spirit  lose  its  fire  or  force  ; 

But  as  he  fainting  fell,  still  shouted  "  on !" 

And  "  on  !" — nor  reck'd  he  of  the  fame  he  lost  or  won. 

And  there,  all  agonized,  was  prostrate  seen, 

Bleeding  and  spent,  his  proud  war  steed, 

(The  princely  gift  of  Britain's  haughty  Queen  ;) 

Who  once  with  eye  of  fire  and  hoof  of  speed, 

Nor  foe — nor  flame — nor  battle's  roar  did  heed ; 

But  onward  rush'd,  amid  the  stern  array 

Of  war,  to  peril's  gaping  jaws  and  war-like  deeds, 

And  foremost  fell — biting  the  earth  whereon  he  lay, 

While  fast  in  crimson  tides  his  proud  life  ebb'd  away 

Where  the  dark  waters  of  the  Rio  Grande, 
Respond  in  music  to  the  sounding  shore; 
Where  fond  familiar  eyes,  or  voices  bland, 
Of  those  he  lov'd  shall  greet  him  never  more, 
The  warrior  sleeps — and  glory's  dream  is  o'er. 
Brave  Ringgold,  fare  thee  well ! — here  must  we  part. 
We  mourn — but  tears  will  not  the  dead  restore. 


SONGS   OP   WAR.  129 

Yet  nought  shall  'rase  thy  deeds  from  battle's  tragic 

chart, 
Or  blot  thy  memory  from  a  nation's  weeping  heart. 


No.  5. 

•      •      •      *      Against  some  storm, 
We  often  see  a  silence  ia  the  heavens, 
The  bold  winds  speechless,  and  the  orb  below, 
As  hush  as  death. — Otway. 

There  came  a  pause — and  from  the  flaming  field, 

Belowna's  car  retir'd — the  ocean  rush 

Of  gathering  hosts  and  steeds  had  ceas'd — nor  peal'd 

The  deep  mouth'd  cannon's  voice  again  ; — a  hush, 

Like  that  of  death,  dwelt  where  the  lava  gush 

Of  many  lives  went  out.     Oh  !  strong  the  chain 

That  could  those  proud  souls  bind,  or  brave  hearts 

crush. 

While  music  far  along  the  sounding  plain 
Awakes — and  wildly  peals  in  peans  o'er  the  slain. 


U) 


NOTES  TO  MEXICAN  WAR  SONGS. 


The  foregoing  poem  was  suggested  and  written  at  the  com 
mencement  of  the  war  between  the  United  States  and  Mexico  ; 
but  at  the  fifth  number  a  temporary  cessation  of  hostilities  took 
place,  when  they  were  laid  aside  with  the  view  of  being  again 
resumed  and  concluded,  as  the  circumstances  and  progress  of 
the  war  should  suggest.  Since  which  period  the  health  of  the 
authoress  has  been  so  sadly  on  the  decline,  that  she  abandoned 
the  idea  of  writing  little  else  than  short  poems  or  stanzas, 
merely  to  beguile  a  few  invalid  hours — hence  the  abrupt  discon 
tinuation  of  the  Mexican  War  Songs. 

JVote  1 — No.  4,  verse  1st. 

"  Who  with  the  brave  the  lurid  fields  along, 
Can  fill  thy  place,  0  Chief  in  war?  &o.:} 
Comparative  allusions  to  Col.  May  and  Maj.  Ringgcld. 

Note  2— No.  4,  verse  1st. 

*  Save  he,  the  bold  Dragoon  of  flaming  sword  and  streaming 
hair." 

Never  shall  I  forget  the  picture  presented  to  my  eye  in  the 
stately  person  of  Col.  May,  mounted  on  his  coal  black  charger, 
aad,  unlike  E.  P.  R.  James'  solitary  horseman,  went  flying  like 
a  phantom  over  the  chaparrell  hills,  while  his  wealth  of  long 
sunny  hair  floated  like  a  banner  in  the  wind. 

Note  3 —  No.  4,  verse  2d. 

"  That  fought  with  the  proudest  steed  and  flying  car, 
The  laurel'd  Chief,  far  famed  in  Seminola's  war." 

Alluding  to  the  victories  achieved  in  the  border  wars  of 
Florida  with  the  Seminoles. 

(131) 


132  MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEMS. 

Jfote  4— No.  4,  «er»e  4fA. 

The  gallant  horsemanship  of  Maj.  Ringgold,  and  the  beauty 
of  his  noble  steed,  elicited  my  admiration ;  whereupon  I  was 
informed  by  an  officer  at  my  side,  that  the  animal  was  presented 
by  Queen  Victoria  to  the  Major,  during  his  sojourn  in  Europe. 
I  have  never  received  any  further  authority  on  Ibis  subject. 

Note  5 — No  4,  verse  5th. 
"  Where  the  dark  waters  of  the  Rio  Grande." 

Since  the  publication  of  this  poem,  the  remains  of  this  gallant 
«/fficer  have  been  removed  from  the  Eio  Grande  to  Hagarstown, 
Maryland. 


SONNETS    AND    SONGS. 


SONG  OF  THE  FLOWERS. 

The  following  fanciful  little  effusion  was  suggested  to  the 
out horeia  in  a  dream. 

There's  wit  in  flowers,  if  we've  the  wit  to  gather  it. — Shakespear. 

From  the  morning  skies  and  the  sunset's  dyes, 

We've  borrow 'd  our  blushing  hues', 
Here  the  butter-fly  dips  its  hyblied  lips, 

Then  its  cloud-ward  course  pursues. 

'Tis  the  star-rays  bright,  and  the  moon's  pale  light, 

And  the  burning  sun  by  day ; 
The  gentle  showers  in  spring-time  hours, 

And  the  dews  that  vanish  away — 

That  to  us  bring,  while  the  free  birds  sing, 

Our  colorings  rich  and  fair ; 
From  our  glowing  vases  the  hum-bird  chases, 

The  insect  tribes  of  air. 

With  rainbow  wings  the  dewlet  springs, 

From  our  emerald  leaflets  gay  ; 
And  the  zephyr's  breath,  far  o'er  the  heath, 

Our  odors  beareth  away. 
(133) 


134  MRS.  MITKDAY'S  POEMS. 

Our  tinted  bowl,  is  the  secret  goal, 
Where  fairies  love  to  dwell ; 

Our  leaves  they  fold,  and  o'er  us  hold, 
By  night,  their  charmed  spell. 

Oh !  lady  fair,  we've  perfumes  rare 

In  silence  floating  on — 
Like  morning  beams,  on  chiming  streams, 

Our  lives  will  soon  be  gone. 

The  summer  day  long,  his  drowsy  song, 
The  bumble-bee  dreamily  hums  ; 

But  haste,  haste,  away,  we  may  not  stay, 
When  the  frosty  spirit  comes. 


SPRING. 

All  Nature  joyful,  shouts  along  the  plains, 
And  echo  swells  the  chorus  o'er  the  hills ; 

Catch  the  glad  sound,  ye  music-murmuring  rills, 
For  Spring  in  rosy  garlands  comes  again. 

How  gaily  now  the  Floral  Queen, 
In  emerald  robes  assumes  her  reign ; 

Blue  pansies  strewing  o'er  the  plain, 
With  daisy  wreaths  and  cowslips  green. 


SONNETS   AND   SONGS.  135 

On  evening's  brow  her  blushes  glow, 

Her  voice  is  in  the  wild  bird's  song ; 
And  softly  floats  the  streams  along, 

Blent  with  the  zephyrs'  flute-notes  low 

Now  sporting  o'er  the  dewy  lawn, 

Through  woody  vales  and  vine-clad  bow'rs, 

Or  thron'd  among  the  May-born  flow'rs, 
Her  smiles  illume  the  rosy  dawn. 

Pan's  breezy  lute  among  the  whisp'ring  reeds, 
Awakes  the  Nymphs  with  many  a  sylvan  call  j 
From  grottoes  dark,  where  silvery  fountains  fall, 
While  fairies  dance  along  the  moon-lit  meads. 


To  A  FRIEND. 

When  the  dusky  shades  of  night, 

With  noiseless  steps  are  creeping  ; 
And  Luna's  silver  light, 

On  vale  and  hill  is  s!eepin/ 
I'll  hie  me  then  away, 

To  my  lonely  wood-land  bow'r , 
Beneath  the  shadows  gray, 

Of  twilight's  sombre  hour. 


136  MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEMS. 

O !  wilt  thou  come  with  me  ? 

When  chiming  streams  are  bringing ; 
A  dream-like  minstrelsy, 

In  sylvan  echoes  ringing ; 
When  soft  decending  dews, 

Be-gem'each  queenly  flower, 
And  swift  the  night-bird  'sues 

The  glow-worm  to  his  bower  ? 

Say  does  thy  sensate  heart, 

O'erflow  with  ardent  feeling  ? 
Dost  feel  the  tear-drop  start, 

When  holy  thoughts  come  stealing  ? 
Thou'lt  love  the  mystic  hour, 

And  drink  its  softness  in, 
Thy  soul  will  feel  its  pow'r, 

And  know  its  calm  within. 

When  down  the  woody  dell, 

The  summer  winds  are  straying  ; 
When  day  hath  bid  farewell, 

And  light  the  stars  are  raying — 
Come  then  with  steps  so  light, 

With  that  true  heart  of  thine, 
And  eyes  so  like  the  night 

As  darkly  bright  they  shine. 

Then  will  some  fairy  sprite 

With  evening  shades  descending, 
Glide  round  in  haloes  bright, 


SONNETS    AND    SONGS.  137 

Each  thought  and  feeling  blending ; 
Come  seraph  of  my  dreams — 

Star  of  my  lonely  soul ; 
Come  with  thine  eyes  bright  beams, 

And  lend  thy  lov'd  control. 


STANZA  s. 
To  a  Class-mate. 

We  met  when  the  first  gush  of  youth, 
Was  beating  free,  and  hopes  were  high ; 

Our  lips  breath'd  nought  but  tales  of  truth, 
And  our  young  bosoms  heaved  no  sigh. 

In  rainbow  glories,  pure  and  bright, 
To  us  did  all  things  seem  to  gleam ; 

Thy  smiles  were  bland,  thy  steps  were  light, 
No  grief  disturbed  thy  halcyon  dream. 

At  dewy  twilight's  elfin  hour, 

How  oft  I've  wander'd  forth  with  thee ; 
And  felt  the  spirit-soothing  pow'r, 

Of  gentle  friendship's  sympathy. 

There  oft  enchanting  music's  swell, 
We've  heard  amid  the  odorous  gale ; 


138  MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEMS. 

With  "  wood  notes  wild  "  from  flow'ring  dell, 
And  streams  that  chime  along  the  vale. 

Ah  !  still  that  joy-dream  of  the  past, 

Around  my  riven  heart  shall  twine ; 
Like  a  green  spot  on  mem'ry's  waste, 
*         Or  ivy  round  the  broken  shrine. 

Or  like  the  breath  of  faded  flowers, 
That  lingers  round  the  snowy  urn ; 

Back  to  my  heart  those  sinless  hours, 
On  memory's  wings  return. 


ISA 


BELL. 


The  following  "Petite"  effusion  was  suggested  to  the 
authoress  on  becoming  acquainted  with  a  very  interesting 
liitle  girl,  who  was  exceedingly  precocious  for  her  years. 

Oh '  who  hath  seen  my  Isabell  ? — 
Her  witching  ways  'twere  hard  to  tell, 
Her  sylph-like  form  and  angel  grace, 
Her  lightsome  step,  and  smiling  face, 
These  are  the  charms  that  ever  dwell, 
Around  my  little  Isabell. 

The  neck  of  snow  and  eyes  of  blue, 
Her  cheek  a  rose-bud  bursting  through, 
The  sunny  brow  and  auburn  curls, 


SONNETS    AND    SONGS.  139 

The  ruby  lips  and  teeth  of  pearls, 
Charms  which  my  heart  remembers  well,. 
Of  beauteous  little  Isabell. 

Her  smile  like  morning's  rosy  light, 
Illumes  my  sadden'd  heart  to-night, 
Her  merry  song  now  sweetly  trills, 
Like  bird-notes  ringing  o'er  the  hills, 
Or  flute-note  echoes  in  the  dell — 
The  syren  voice  of  Isabell. 

Pure  is  her  heart  as  mountain  snows 

Where  deep  the  fount  of  kindness  flows, 

And  gentle  in  her  mirthfulness, 

As  is  an  angel's  soft  caress, 

Ah !  these  are  charms  my  bosom  swell, 

For  charming  little  Isabell. 

Oh,  should  you  meet  this  little  fair, 
Your  heart  she  surely  would  ensnar 
An  houri  strayed  from  Eden's  grove 
Or  wand'ring  star-beam  from  above, 
Mission'd  awhile  with  us  to  dwell, 
Is  joyous  little  Isabell. 


140  MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEMS. 

WRITTEN  IN  A  LADY'S  ALBUM. 

They  tell  me  thou  art  young, 
Then  I  will  guess  thee  fair, 
And  like  the  wings  of  midnight. 
Thy  softly  flowing  hair ; 
Bright  as  a  summer  sea, 
Reflecting  bluest  skies, 
The  smiling  witchery, 
That  floats  within  thine  eyes. 

I  ween  there's  many  a  charm, 
And  many  a  nameless  grace, 
Adorns  thy  gentle  form, 
And  lights  thy  rosy  face  ; 
And  better  far  thy  heart, 
All  glad  and  fancy  free, 
Around  thee  doth  impart, 
A  joy-born  melody. 

Thus  ever  glad  and  free, 
May  Virtue's  eagis  bright, 
Lay  like  a  robe  about  thee, 
And  shield  thy  heart  from  blight, 
And  soft  as  evening  winds, 
That  sigh  o'er  summer  streams, 
Be  every  link  that  binds, 
Thy  heart  to  rosy  dreams. 


SONNETS   AND   SONGS.  141 

To  A  PORTRAIT. 

Sa3T,  Portrait !  whence  the  pleasing  spell. 

That  binds  me  to  this  place  ; — 
Why  does  my  heart  with  rapture  swej 

While  gazing  on  thy  face  ? 

Enchanter  !  sovereign  of  my  soul, 

I'd  here  forever  stray ; 
Here  silent  weep  without  control, 

And  sigh  myself  away. 

Oh !  might  I  round  those  breathing  charms, 

In  sinless  purity ; 
Enraptured  wreathe  my  clasping  arms, 

Unknown  to  even  thee. 

The  Pagan  priest  adores  the  sun, — 

The  Heathen  gods  of  clay ; 
But  dearest  semblance  thou  hast  grown, 

More  idolized  than  they. 


To 


Sweet  Friend  !  it  was  a  rosy  hour, 
The  festive  time  when  first  we  met ; 

Midst  mirth  and  song  whose  circean  powei; 
Forbids  that  I  should  e'er  forget. 


J42  MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEMS. 

How  oft  I've  sought  some  sylvan  bower, 
To  wake  the  harp  of  memory ; 

Recalling  oft  the  palmy  hour, 

When  first  I  learned  to  think  of  thee. 

And  when  the  gentle  evening  star, 
Looks  down  in  love  on  thee  and  me ; 

Then  in  my  western  home  afar, 
I  watch  that  star  and  think  of  thee. 

When  sorrow  darkened  o'er  my  way, 
And  wrapt  my  soul  in  misery : 

Thy  name  hath  lent  a  pitying  ray, 

To  pierce  the  gloom  with  thoughts  of  thee 

What  though  upon  my  throbbing  heart, 
Death's  icy  chains  should  fastened  be ; 

What  though  the  light  of  life  depart, 
My  latest  thought  shall  be  of  thee. 

And  yet  those  palmy  bowers  of  light, 
While  thou  wert  slumb'ring  quietly, 

I'd  leave ; — and  through  the  jewel'd  night, 
A  guardian  spirit  prove  to  thee. 


SONNETS   AND   SONGS.  143 


STANZAS. 

Oh  !  wake  once  more  that  mournful  strain, 
Around  me  fling  its  haunting  spell ; 

Oh  !  let  me  hear  those  sounds  again, 
Of  joy-dreams  past  their  accents  tell 

Yes ;  touch  again  the  trembling  string, 
What  scenes  those  mournful  sounds  recall; 

While  memories  dark,  their  shadows  fling, 
Upon  the  past  a  sombre  pall. 

When  first  I  heard  that  music's  swell, 
I  stood  within  the  spacious  hall ; 

The  light  in  streamy  glories  fell, 
Along  the  lofty  parien'wall. 

And  there  were  dazzling  forms  and  bright, 
The  proud,  the  beautiful  were  there  ; 

My  young  heart  trembled  with  delight, 
And  fluttered  with  a  secret  snare. 

For  there  was  one  who  watched  my  step, 

And  by  me  ever  lingered  nigh ; 
On  me  his  ardent  gaze  still  kept, 

And  softly  breathed  a  languid  sigh. 

The  scene  is  past  and  faded  quite, 
The  image  fled  and  my  heart's  rest ; 


144  MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEMS. 

Yet  many  a  vision  of  that  night, 
On  memory's  tablets  are  impressed. 

Oh !  that  this  heart  -which  now  is  breaking, 
In  Lethe's  stream  might  ever  sleep ; 

For  fell  despair  my  soul  is  shaking, 
And  hopeless  I  am  doomed  to  weep. 

Hush !  hush !  my  soul,  the  music's  ended, 
Yet  let  me  hear  one  gush  again  ; 

There's  grief  and  joy  so  sweetly  blended, 
I  could  expire  upon  that  strain. 


SONG. 

In  sadness  I  languish  for  thee  love, 

For  thee  I  impatiently  call ; 
O  !  come  to  our  old  willow  tree  love, 

Where  murmuring  waters  fall. 
O  come !  O  come !  0  come  !  dearest  beloved  come 

The  whippowil  sings  of  her  mate  love, 
From  yonder  lone  beachen  tree  ; 

Thus  lonely  thy  presence  I  wait  love< 

Thus  lonely  I  sing  of  thee. 
O  come !  0  come  !  0  come  !  dearest  beloved  come 


SONXETS    AND    SONGS. 


145 


Soft  zephyrs  are  sighing  low  love, 

Adown  our  own  sweet  vale ; 
Where  oft  we  have  wandered  slow  love, 

And  breathed  the  ambrosial  gale. 
O  come  !  0  come  !  O  come  !  dearest  beloved  come  ! 

I  go,  but  by  yonder  star  love, 

That  beams  on  thee  and  me  : 
Although  I  may  wander  afar  love, 

Yet  fondly  I'll  still  think  of  thee. 
Farewell !  farewell !  farewell !  dearest  beloved  farewell! 


STANZA. 

Oh !  ye  dreary  days  of  sadness, 

Clothed  in  funeral  array ; 
Days  of  youthful  joy  and  gladness, 

Now  forever  pass'd  away. 

Mine  was  once  the  heart  of  gladness, 

Pleasure's  cup  I  gaily  sip'd ; 
'Tis  broken  now — and  grief  and  madness, 

With  bitter  dregs  now  bathe  my  lips. 

What  to  me  is  beauteous  nature, 
Faded  are  the  charms  of  spring  ; 

Lost  to  me  her  loveliest  feature, 
No  joy  to  me  the  seasons  bring. 


46  MRS.    MUNDAT  S   POEMS. 

Even  music's  notes  of  sweetness, 
Has  sorrow  in  its  floating  song ; 

Of  by-gone  days  and  of  their  fleetness, 
It  whispers  as  it  floats  along. 

Cease,  warbling  lyre,  my  heart  is  breaking, 
Nay,  tell  to  me  that  tale  no  more ; 

Despair  is  from  her  trance  awaking, 
"And  every  dream  of  hope  is  o'er. 


FANTASIES. 

The  breezes  all  met  in  a  bower  one  day, 

To  frolic  the  noon-tide  hours  away. 

"  Hush !  soft !  be  still !" — young  Zephyrs  said, 

"  On  this  bed  of  flowers  reposes  a  maid, 

I'll  softly  fan  the  brow  of  the  girl, 

Then  nestle  me  in  some  clustering  curl." 

And  thus  around  her  a  watch  they  kept, 

Inspiring  her  dreams  as  soft  she  slept.  » 

Escaped  from  her  eyelids'  silken  fringe 

Stood  a  tear,  bedewing  her  cheeks  soft  tinge. 

One  kiss'd  the  pearly  gem  away, 

When  a  butterfly  came  of  pinions  gay ; 

"  Begone  !"  they  cried — "  you  will  break  her  repose, 

Her  cheek  you  have  rudely  mistook  for  a  rose," 

And  that  thieving  bee  now  reveling  sips, 


SONNETS    AND    SONGS.  147 

The  nectar  from  off  her  balmy  lips. 

"  Fly  away  noisy  bee — we  are  sorely  afraid, 

With  your  humming  and  buzzing  you'll  wake  the  maid." 

Then  in  glee  their  pinions  sweet  they  spread, 

And  from  them  a  thousand  odors  shed  ; 

One  swept  her  lute's  soft  trembling  strings, 

Another  kept  time  with  his  sportive  wings, 

And  gaily  fluffing  one  gentle  wind, 

Breathed  a  much  loved  name  to  her  dreaming  mind. 

She  murmur'd  low  and  sighed  the  name, 

And  whispered  of  a  secret  flame. 

The  laughing  breezes  heard  the  maid, 

And  flew  round  in  a  whirl  as  thus  they  said, 

"  Make  haste  and  scour  the  sunny  plain, 

And  bear  it  to  the  favored  swain." 

Alarmed  the  maid  awaken'd  sigh'd, 

"  Yield  back  that  name."    "  Nay,"  Zephyrs  cried, 

And  he  wrapt  it  in  his  frolic  wing, 

"  I'm  off,"  said  he,  "  in  a  twinkling. " 

So  saying,  away  the  babbler  flew. 

"  Ye  reckless  swains,  to  which  of  you 

Was  told  the  tale  ?     If  I  only  knew 

'Twas  the  right  one.     What  then  ?     Confess  it  true  ? 

Well,  really— I— I'll  be— blam'd  if  I  do." 


148  MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEMS. 

RESPONSE   TO   

"Alas !  what  grief  Bhould  thy  heart  know  ?" 

'Tis  uot  by  outward  sign  or  show, 
The  deep  heart's  anguish  we  can  know ; 
We  cannot  fathom  Passion's  storm, 
By  writhing  brow  or  faded  form ; 
Or  in  the  tearful  torrent's  start, 
That  lava  fountain  of  the  heart, 
What  tho'  the  brow  seem  free  from  care, 
The  lips  be  wreathed  in  smiles  all  fair ; 
Within  the  brain  a  pool  of  fire, 
May  rage  and  burn  and  not  expire  ; 
And  on  the  heart  a  curse  may  lie, 
That  still  consumes  yet  will  not  die. 
What  tho'  the  step  be  light  as  air, 
The  heart  may  burn  with  rankling  care, 
And  writhe  and  break  in  mute  despair. 


To  Miss  AMANDA  HARTE. 

I  have  never  known  thee,  never  met  thee, 
Yet  is  my  roving  fancy  prone  to  set  thee 
Like  a  fair  picture  in  my  mental  vision, 
Born  half  of  earth  an<*  \alf  of  realms  Elysian. 


SONNETS   AND   SONGS.  149 

All  heart  I  ween  thou  art  by  name  and  nature  : 
A  warm,  confiding,  young  and  joyous  creature  ; 
And  like  the  hart  that  nimbly  thro'  the  wild-wood, 
Seeks  the  green  dell  where  falls  the  fountain  flood, 
Be  thy  heart  free  and  clothed  with  innocence, 
Serene  and  pure  as  the  bright  stars  from  whence 
Youth's  happiest  hopes  and  vision-dreams  are  caught, 
And  may  thy  future  lot  with  heaven-hues  be  fraught. 


SONG. 

Around  another's  brow, 
The  myrtle  wreath  I'll  twine ; 

Thou  dost  not  love  me  now, 
I  am  no  longer  thine. 

Before  another's  shrine, 

Thou'st  bent  the  suppliant  knee  ; 
Thou  call'st  her  divine — 

Thou  said'st  the  same  of  me. 

Thine  ever  changing  heart 

Upon  the  altar  lay  ; 
Its  fires  will  soon  depart, 

Its  incense  pass  away. 

Thine  image  on  my  heart, 
I  now  no  longer  wear ; 


150  MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEMS 

I  do  not  grieve  to  part, 
My  brow  is  free  from  care. 

The  illusion  now  is  o'er, 
I  do  not  think  of  thee ; 

I  dream  of  thee  no  more, 
Of  what  thou  wast  to  me. 

Low  hov'ring  round  my  head, 
Ethereal  visions  play ; 

And  softly  from  my  bed, 
Charm  all  sad  dreams  away. 

The  shadows  of  the  past 
Like  night  have  fled  away ; 

While  Love  around  me  casts, 
Its  bland  and  ardent  ray. 

Thou'lt  meet  me  in  the  throng, 

Again  will  see  me  smile ; 
Wilt  press  my  careless  hand, 

Nor  cause  one  thrill  the  while. 
/ 

Around  another's  brow, 

The  myrtle  wreath  I'll  twine ; 

Thou  may'st  not  love  me  now, 
Since  I'm  no  longer  thine. 


SONNETS   AND   SONGS.  151 

To  MART  BELL. 

Sweet  Mary  Bell — that  gentle  name, 

Is  linked  with  many  a  spell ; 
My  aching  breast  has  felt  no  rest, 

Since  thee  I  met,  sweet  "  Mary  Bell !" 

Her  gentle  voice  sank  in  my  heart, 

As  low  its  accents  fell ; 
I  strove  to  speak — my  voice  grew  weak, 

I  only  sigh'd — sweet  "  Mary  Bell." 

Her  sylph-like  form  and  witching  face, 

Where  all  the  Loves  doth  dwell ; 
The  silken  lash  whence  glances  flash, 

Hath  won  my  heart,  sweet  "  Mary  Bell.'* 

As  oft  on  me  her  glances  fall, 

Soft  as  a  young  gazelle's  ; 
A  thrilling  flame  darts  through  my  frame, 

I  feel  I  love  thee—"  Mary  Bell." 

But  hush !  my  weak  and  faltering  tongue 

Ca,n  ne'er  my  feelings  tall ; 
Oh !  is  it  vain,  the  tender  pain, 

I  endure  for  "  Mary  Bell?" 


152  MRS.  MONDAY'S  POEMS. 

SONG. 

The  circean  spell  is  over, 
The  Paphean  dream  is  done ; 

The  mystic  cord  is  broken, 
That  bound  our  hearts  in  one. 

And  gentle  Love  lies  weeping, 
Above  the  urn  of  Hope ; 

The  flowers  of  mem'ry  keeping 
To  guild  Life's  downward  slope. 

The  last  fond  word  is  spoken, 
The  murmur'd  prayer  is  o'er  ; 

The  spirit-lute  is  broken, 

'Twill  sound  in  song  no  more. 


A  DREAM  OP  THE  PAST. 

"  Thy  voice  is  in  mine  ear,  sweet  friend ; 
Thy  look  is  in  my  heart." 

I'm  thinking  now  of  one, 

Beloved  in  distant  years ; 
And  fondly  cherish'd  still, 

Through  pain  and  bitter  tears. 


SONNETS   AND   SONGS.  153 

That  one  to  me  how  dear, 

No  tongue  can  ever  tell ; 
How  deep  within  my  heart, 

The  haunting  dream  must  dwell. 

I  see  thee  even  now, 

And  as  when  last  we  met ; 
My  breaking  heart  is  full, 

Mine  eyes  with  tears  are  wet. 

They're  floating  in  my  mind, 

The  look — the  smile — the  tone— 
The  tender  kiss  of  love, 

Which  once  were  all  mine  own. 

The  light  of  all  my  life, 

And  life  of  every  dream  ; 
As  soft  Hesperus  shines, 

On  some  benighted  stream. 

Oh  !  for  one  gentle  glance, 

From  those  Ithureal  eyes  ;     • 
One  tone  of  that  sweet  voice, 

As  soft  as  summer  sighs. 

Or  might  I  clasp  once  more, 

The  hand  that  once  was  mine ; 
And  greet  that  pleasant  smile, 

As  angels  look  divine. 

What  were  a  world  of  joy, 
To  exstacies  like  these ; 


154  MRS.    MUNDAY«S   POEMS. 

Or  richest  argosies, 

That  float  upon  the  seas  ? 

Within  my  soul's  profound, 
There  is  a  sacred  spot ; 

Serenely  calm,  and  where 
The  world's  breath  enters  not 

Oh !  there  for  aye,  enshrined, 
A  gentle  form  is  set ; 

And  ne'er  till  life  is  o'er, 
Shall  I  that  dream  forget. 


THE   SERENADE. 

I  leaned  me  on  the  midnight  air, 
The  wind  was  sighing  low  ; 

The  youthful  moon  adown  the  West, 
Hung  like  a  silver  bow. 

Methought  if  I  were  but  a  ray, 

How  softly  I  would  shine 
Into  thine  eyes,  and  silently 

Read  every  thought  of  thine. 

When  soft  a  manly  voice  arose, 
How  deep  and  rich  its  tone ; 


SONNETS    AND    SONGS.  155 

My  pulses  paused — my  heart  grew  still 
I  heard  but  that  alone. 

Entranced  I  heard  the  witching  song, 

As  oft  it  rose  and  fell ; 
And  memory  still  those  sounds  prolong, 

As  with  a  magic  spell. 

Ah !  sing  again,  who  e'er  thou  art, 

I'll  listen  tho'  it  kill ; 
Within  the  chambers  of  my  heart, 

Those  sounds  are  echoing  still. 


SONG. 

Thou  didst  lure  me  from  the  circle, 
Of  the  cherished  and  the  true  ; 

Midst  streams  and  hills  and  woodlands, 
Alone  to  dwell  with  you. 

But  the  joyous  dream  is  fleeting, 

As  fast  the  moments  roll ; 
It  is  our  last  wild  meeting, 

To  mingle  soul  with  soul. 

In  sorrow  I  must  wander, 
O'er  scenes  that's  fair  no  more ; 


156  MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEMS. 

And  oft  my  heart  will  ponder, 
On  blissful  hours  o'er. 

Fare  thee  well !  farewell  forever ! 

Since  we,  alas  !  must  part ; 
'Twere  hard  indeed  to  sever, 

'Twill  break — 'twill  break  my  heart. 

When  the  moon's  pale  beam  reposes, 

Along  the  quiet  sea ; 
Then  in  thy  bower  of  roses, 

Oh !  dearest,  think  of  me. 


^BOLI  AN    MELODIES. 

Where  of  ye,  O  Tempests,  is  the  goal  ? 

Are  ye  like  those  that  shake  the  human  breast, 

Or  do  ye  find,  like  eagles,  some  high  nest  ? — Byron. 

The  winds,  the  loud  high  winds,  whose  mournful  choir 

Of  many  voice  blent,  sends  forth  their  varied  notes, 

From  the  hoarse  roaring  of  assembled  floods, 

To  the  low  whispers  breathed  to  trembling  flowers, 

As  they  upon  soft  summer's  lap  expire  ; 

Oh  !  these,  from  sinless  childhood's  rosy  dawn, 

Have  a  strange  spell  upon  my  spirit  flung — 

While  floating  round  my  brain,  were  shad'wy  thoughts 

Of  dream-like  beauty,  as  my  spirit  oft 

Caught  the  strange  meaning  of  their  anthems  wild. 

Are  they  not  messengers  divine,  whose  songs, 

Eternal,  are  forever  fraught  with  sounds, 

Caught  from  celestial  spheres  ?     And  then  again, 

So  near  the  earth  they  seem  to  bend  their  wings, 

That  their  glad  strains  are  blent  with  wailing  tones 

Of  mortal  cares. 

And  oft  in  mine  imagings, 

I've  heard  commingling  with  their  shrieking  songs, 
Voices,  which  rose  from  earth  in  sad  lament, 
For  those  —  the  lov'd  —  the  good  —  the  brave  —  the 
pure — 


158  MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEMS. 

The  beautiful  and  true — too  early  lost ! 

When  o'er  fair  Nature's  cheek  stern  autumn  casts 

The  fitful  hectic  of  decay,  I've  heard, 

As  wand'ring  through  the  vistas  blue, 

Of  woodlands  beautiful,  this  minstrel  band 

Come  moaning  up  the  vales,  and  wildly  breathe 

Their  dirge-like  melodies. 

'Tis  then  my  soul, 

With  sweet  intelligences  rapt,  communion  sweet- 
Communion  most  divine — doth  seem  to  hold ; 
And  to  shuffle  off  this  mortal  coil  1  long, 
Of  all  its  earthly  film,  to  have  my  vision  cleared ; 
To  feel  my  soul  expand  its  unknown  powers : 
Its  wings  stretch  forth,  and  far  beyond  these  fields 
Of  azure  soar,  where,  in  the  bless'd  abodes. 
Of  etherializing  joys  I  might  forever  dwell. 
But  hark !  e'en  now  amid  the  giant  boughs 
Of  yonder  towering  woods,  in  war-like  strife, 
Their  trumpet  blasts  I  hear — and  sorrowing  tales, 
To  those  of  exiled  spirits  lost  akin, 
Unto  my  rapt  and  list'ning  ears  are  borne. 


The  Exile's  Lament. 

They  bear  me  hence,  my  native  land, 

Far,  far  away  from  thee  ; 
From  loving  friends — a  kindred  band — 


-EOLIAN   MELODIES  159 

On  o'er  the  surging  sea. 
•They  bear  me  hence  o'er  foaming  deeps, 

To  that  benighted  shore  ; 
Where  many  a  weary  exile  sleeps, 

To  wake  and  weep  no  more. 

They  waft  me  from  thy  happy  scenes, 

Thy  merry  dancing  rills  ; 
Thy  waving  woods  and  vales  serene, 

And  heaven-soaring  hills ; 
While  from  the  dark  pines  waving  high, 

With  deep  and  solemn  swell, 
Are  wafted  on  the  wind's  low  sigh, 

Sad  murmurs  of  farewell. 

Now  lowly  cot,  and  vaulted  dome, 

Are  fading  fast  from  view  ; 
And  thou,  alas  !  my  boyhood's  home, 

Must  vanish  with  them  too. 
Yet  will  the  glory  of  your  skies, 

Your  ever  flashing  streams, 
And  many  a  glance  from  loving  eyes, 

Still  haunt  my  fever-dreams. 

Ah  !  now  they're  gone— they're  shut  from  sight, 

Behind  the  ocean  wave  ; 
Oh  !  for  one  glance,  those  visions  bright, 

In  memory's  glass  to  save  ; 
Where  is  the  wrong  ? — may  I  not  know  ? — 

Ye  men  of  power,  tell  why, 


160  MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEMS. 

To  alien  climes  why  doom'd  to  go — 
la  gloom  to  toil  and  die,  ? 

Cease — cease,  my  bursting  heart  give  o'er, 

Since  exile  chains  are  thine  ; 
Once  more  adieu,  my  native  shore, 

Britannia,  home  of  mine. 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

Like  flute  notes  sweet  the  waving  whispers  glide, 
Then  swelling  on,  so  mournful  and  yet  wild, 
That  its  deep  tones  still  float  within  my  heart. 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

But  hark !  there  is  a  gush  of  melody, 

Strange  and  sweet,  as  when  the  summer  winds,  low 

And  tremulous,  over  rich  harp-strings  sweep ; 

And  on  those  chaunting  cadences  of  sound,  methinks 

Some  sorrowing  sphit's  voice  in  haunting  tones  is  borne. 


The  Broken  Hearted. 

The  moon  is  forth,  the  stars  are  bright, 
The  earth  is  passing  fair  to-night, 
But  still  mine  eyes  with  tears  are  wet, 
For  one  whom  I  can  ne1er  forget ; 
Who  round  my  brows  once  loved  to  twine, 
The  pale  white  rose  and  myrtle  vine ; 
Oh  !  he  is  gone — and  joy  has  flown, 
My  broken  heart  has  lost  its  tone, 


JEOLIAN   MELODIES. 
I 

And  burning  tears  and  wasting  care, 
Have  chased  the  smiles  I  used  to  wear. 

Alone  I  roam  o'er  hill  and  dell, 
To  cull  the  flowers  he  lov'd  so  well, 
And  by  the  shadowy  lake  I  stray, 
Where  oft  we  met  at  close  of  day. 
Ah  !  there  I've  vainly  hoped  to  see, 
My  once  fond  lover  come  to  me. 
Oh  !  have  I  loved  him  all  too  well  ? 
Let  my  woe  and  anguish  tell ; 
By  all  that  yields  me  no  relief, 
By  my  sleepless  nights  of  grief, 
By  my  brain's  wild  misery, 
I  have  worship'd  faithfully, 
With  the  soul's  most  mad'ning  thrill, 
And  as  madly  worship  still. 

Tell  me,  ye  winds,  ye  spheres  divine, 

If  aught  ye  know  of  lover  mine  ? 

Tell  me,  ye  viewless  sprites  of  air, 

Is  he  false  to  me — the  young  and  fair  ? 

At  another's  shrine  doth-  Theon  dare 

To  breathe  the  same  impassioned  prayer, 

That  was  his  wont  in  happier  hour 

To  breathe  within  this  rose-wreath'd  bow'r  ? 

And  doth  he  for  that  maiden's  sake, 

His  charmed  mandolin  awake  ? 

Or  sleeps  he  'neath  the  ocean  wave, 

In  a  pearl-spared  cell  of  the  sea  maid's  cave  ? 


162  MRS.    MtTKDAT's   POEMS. 

Or  battling  'mid  the  stern  and  brave, 
Hath  my  hero  found  a  glorious  grave  ( 

1  have  mourned  my  life  away, 

And  the  hectic  of  decay, 

O'er  my  cheek  and  o'er  my  brow, 

Burns  intensely  even  now. 

I  have  sighed  and  wailed  for  him, 

Till  life  and  all  its  joys  look  dim  ; 

But  the  wasted,  broken  heart, 

May  suffer  on — endure  the  smart ; 

And  so  intense  may  be  its  woe, 

That  its  tears  will  cease  to  flow  : 

The  brain  may  burn  with  Passion's  fire, 

The  spirit  break,  and  not  expire. 

Wrapt  in  shadows  pale  and  dim, 

Where  I  shall  not  dream  of  him, 

I  soon  shall  know  death's  placid  sleep, 

And  o'er  me  roses  pale  shall  weep. 

Oh  !  parent  earth,  upon  thy  breast, 

Take  thy  woe-worn  child  to  rest. 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

The  lute-like  winds  now  faintly  fall, 

And  down  the  distant  glades  in  sorrowing  tones  expire. 

jfc  %  %  £  *  * 

But  hark !  again  those  melancholy  sounds, 

Like  plaintive  voices  on  the  sobbing  winds  arise, 

And  as  they  fall  upon  my  listening  ear 

Methinks  their  tones  from  dying  innocence  were  caught, 


JEOLIAN   MELODIES.  163 

As  o'er  its  lowly  couch  soft  zephyrs  sighed, 
And  with  the  chime  of  many  mingling  sounds, 
With  odors,  dew,  and  summer  flowers  were  blent, 
And  gently  wafted  on.     Tell  us,  ye  winds, 
Do  we  not  hear  upon  your  murmurs  borne, 
Some  deathless  spirit's  voice,  whose  yearning  eaf 
Hath  drank  the  music  of  angelic  choirs  ? 

The  Dying  Boy. 

Mother  !  where  am  I  ? — and  what  ails  me  now  ? 
Oh  !  I'm  so  weary — and — I  cannot  rest  ; 
For  some  strong  hand  is  pressing  on  my  breast, 
The  damps  of  death  are  settling  on  my  brow. 

I  scarce  can  hear  your  voice — your  face  looks  dim — 
Oh  !  mother  shall  I  ne'er  behold  thee  more  ? 
Hark  !  nearer  they  come,  from  heaven's  celestial  shore, 
Those  voices  soft  of  harping  seraphim. 

Oh  !  mother,  shall  I  ne'er  go  forth  with  thee, 
O'er  the  sweet  fields  and  by  the  sparkling  streams  ? 
Shall  none  of  all  my  boyhood's  glory  dreams 
Be  here  fulfilled  ?     Oh,  speak  to  me  ! 

And  shall  I  ne'er  behold  the  morning  sun, 
Or  watch  the  mountain  clouds  that  chase  along  the  sky ; 
Or  the  pale  moon  that  beams  at  noon  of  night  on  high, 
Or  count  the  stars  when  the  bright  day  is  done  ? 


164  MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEMS. 

No,  mother,  no ;  for  from  beyond  yon  brilliant  dome, 
Methinks  some  heavenly  seraph  now  is  hov'ring  near ; 
And  this  sweet  summon  falls  upon  mine  ear: 
Sweet  brother  mine,  come  to  the  skies  with  me, 

Come  home. 

And  now  I  feel  death's  icy  surges  round  me  swell. 
Oh,  mother  !  mother  !  weep  not  when  I'm  gone  ; 
For  we  shall  meet  again  upon  that  other  dawn  ; 
Then  wipe  away  your  tears — 'twill   not   be   long — 

farewell ! 
*  *  *  *  #  # 

Like  Memnon's  sweet  uncertain  sun-awaken'd  strains, 

Those  plaintive  murmurs  died  away. 

More  sadly  still  the  grieving  zephyrs  sigh, 

As  tho'  upon  the  sorrow-laden  air 

A  fearful  change  had  pass'd ;  its  fitful  moan, 

Along  the  purple  hills  and  twilight  vales, 

In  sobbing  accents  falls,  so  mournful  and  yet  wild, 

As  tho'  the  heart  with  anguish  full  would  break. 

The  Mother's  Lament. 

Alas  !  my  only  hope  of  this  cold  gloomy  earth, 
Last  link  of  life — my  dream — my  pride — my  joy-* 
Thou  wert  to  me,  my  gentle,  darling  boy ; 
But  now  thou  art  gone,  leaving  desolate  my  hearth, 

Gone — gone,  indeed  ! — and  yet  how  sadly  sweet 
Death's  stillness,  like  a  robe,  lays  gently  round  thee 


JEOLIAN    MELODIES.  165 

That  I  could  almost  dream  thou  didst  but  sleep, 
And  soon  again  would  wake  thy  mother's   smile  to 
greet. 

How  sweet  the  smile  thy  pleasant  eyes  could  give  ;>. 
And  oh !  how  oft  these  locks  of  sunny  hair 
I've  paited  from  thy  brow,  so  ivory  white  and  fair, 
While  in  thy  gentle  voice  my  very  soul  did  live. 

As  some  rude  child  with  untaught  sway, 
O'er  a  voluptuous  harp  oft  idly  flings 
His  uncouth  hands  across  its  strings, 
Sundering  chords  attuned  to  sweetest  lay — 

So  death,  with  blackened  wings, 

Hath  swept  his  icy  ringers  o'er  thy  heart ; 

Where  gushing  sweet  did  living  harmonies  upstart, 

And  severed  all  its  thousand  strings. 

The  cup  is  full — the  music  of  my  life  is  hushed — 
Come  soon,  O  death,  and  grant  thy  Lethean  sleep  ; 
There  is  no  grandeur  here  for  thee  to  reap, 
My  being's  light  is  fone — my  heart  is  crushed. 

j)ied  on  the  summer  air  the  melting  strain, 
And  as  the  sighing  gales  flew  softly  by, 
They  seemed  to  nestle  in  tbe  tall  rank  grass, 
And  fold  their  dewy  wings. 

And  yet  again, 
**5hose  gentle  airs  in  whispers  low  did  breathe 


—  I- 

166  MRS.  MONDAY'S  POEMS. 

(Into  the  trembling  flowers  of  earth-born  cares, 
Who  bent  their  weeping  heads  and  quivering  leaves, 
And  sighed  their  tender  perfumes  on  the  night. 


The  Orphans. 

Why,  brother,  is  thy  brave  young  brow, 
Where  soft  the  dark  locks  lay, 

All  shaded  o'er  with  sorrow  now, 
When  all  the  world  looks  gay  ? 

Oh  !  ask  me  not,  my  sister  dear, 
Too  young  and  fair  thou  art, 

To  know  what  brings  the  swelling  tear, 
The  anguish  of  my  heart. 

For  we  are  orphans  now.  alone, 
From  place  to  place  must  roam  ; 

Our  parents,  once  so  kind,  are  gone, 
We  have  no  friends  or  home. 

Wfiere  stands  embower'd  on  the  hill 
A  cottage  white,  around  whose  walls 
The  creeping  woodbine  twines,  and  stl!* 
The  gay  glad  streamlet  falls. 

There,  once  in  happiness  we  dwelt, 

And  oft  the  altar  round, 
In  prayerful  breathings  lowly  knelt, 

While  peace  our  labors  crowned. 


'     .EOLIAN    MELODIES.  167 

x 

But  change  came  o'er  the  scene  of  bliss, 

And  draped  our  hearts  in  gloon  ; 
Then  came  the  misery  of  this, 

Our  dark  and  early  .doom. 

In  freedom's  wars  our  father  died, 

Upon  a  distant  shore ; 
Fain  would  1  slumber  by  his  side, 

To  wake  and  weep  no  <noreT 

Then  o'er  each  heart  and  brow  there  came 

Dark  clouds  of  doubt  and  fear ; 
We  were  too  sad  to  breathe  his  name, 

He  was  to  us  so  dear. 

For  strangers  cold  our  home  we  left, 

In  grief  and  want  to  dwell ; 
Each  heart  grew  sick — of  hope  bereft, 

And  sighed  to  home — Farewell ! 

At  length  our  gentle  mother  died, 

Who  used  to  love  us  so. 
No  friend  have  we — no  home — Ah !  me : 

Oh,  who'll  protect  us  now  ! 


In  low  complainings  ceased  those  wind-waked  strains 
But  now  my  solemn  ear  drinks  in  a  wail  of  woe, 
So  sad,  'twould  seem  the  very  winds  did  weep. 


168  MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEMS. 

The  Bereaved. 

Oh,  heavily  the  hours  glide, 

For  she  who  erst  dwelt  by  my  side, 

Is  now  no  more — my  gentle  bride, 

Lost,  lost  lannie ! 

Her  tender  eyes  were  like  the  hue, 
Of  modest  voilets  shining  through 
A  tissuey  veil  of  pearly  dew — 

Lovely  lannie ! 

Soft  on  her  brow  the  silken  hair, 

Lay  goldenly  in  tresses  fair  ; 

Her  cheek  was  like  the  rose-bud  rare — 

Beautiful  lannie ! 

Joyous  and  happy  as  a  child, 
Would  she  sing  so  sweetly  wild  : 
Oh,  she'Vas  gay  and  yet  so  mild, 

Gentle  lannie ! 

But  now  my  dreams  of  joy  are  o'er ; 

The  star  hath  set  that  I  adore ; 

Its  beams  will  glad  my  soul  no  more — 

Lost,  lost  lannie ! 

I  have  loved  the  wildly  well ; 

O,  what  can  my  heart's  anguish  quell  ? 

JTis  nought  but  death  !  Till  then— Farewell, 

Sweet,  sweet  lannie ! 
*  *  *  *  *  * 


JEOLIAN    MELODIES.  169 

Distant,  in  sobbing  tones,  the  viewless  winds, 
Amid  the  dark  green  pines,  arise  and  softly  sigh 
;     In  syllables  of  breezy  sound — Farewell ! 

But  now,  like  angry  floods,  harsh  tones  awake, 

And  fiercely  roar  along  the  bending  sky. 

*  *  *  *  *  * 


The  Captive  Chief, 

Long  years  in  these  prison  walls  I  have  pined, 
With  the  tyrant's  chain  over  me  ever ; 

And  long  have  I  struggled  the  chain  to  unbind, 
This  thraldom  dark  to  sever. 

Alas  !  'twill  be  my  only  tomb, 

Companioned  for  age  by  silence  and  gloom. 

They  may  bind  these  limbs  with  burning  chains; 

They  may  rack  this  writhing  frame : 
But  they  never  can  conquer  with  torturing  pains, 

A  fearless  spirit  of  flame. 
They  cannot  subdue  the  chainless  mind, 
Nor  the  freeborn  soul  with  fettefs.  bind. 

Curse  on,  curse  on,  ye  minions  of  power; 

Bring  fire,  bring  faggot — I  reck  not  my  fate ; 
Nor  lament  I  in  sadness  the  soul-rnad'ning  hour, 

That  ye  bound  me  in  chains,  and  thus  taught 

me  to  hate. 

My  spirit  is  free  in  these  prison  walls, 
As  the  sky-soaring  bird  in  its  forest-halls. 


170  MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEMS. 

And  proud  as  the  eagle  that  swoops  o'er  the  hills, 
Is  my  tameless  soul  and  its  fetterless  will ; 
Your  mercy  I  spurn,  and  your  tortures  defy, 
And  sooner  than  yield  I  gladly  would  die. 

Aye,  whate  er  betide,  I  ne'er  will  give  o'er ; 
For  the  soul  that  can  triumph  o'er  death  and 

its  foes, 
Fair  Freedom  shall  weep  when  I  am  no  more, 

And  love,  though  afar,  shed  a  tear  to  my  woes. 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

Now  swelling  on,  one  piercing  shriek  it  gives, 
And  on  swift  pinions  takes  its  flight  through  space 

Dying  in  echoes  low  amid  the  trees. 

*  #  *  *  *  * 

With  transing  spell  some  viewless  sprite  now  sweeps 
Its  breezy  lyre,  and  soft  seolian  warblings  wake, 
While  on  the  dreamy  murmurs  come  sweet  strains 
Of  long  ago,  and  memories  of  home. 

The  Captive  Exile. 

Oh  sad  was  my  fate  when  in  youth's  sweet  prime, 

From  my  vine-clad  home  I  strayed, 
Alone  to  roam  in  a  foreign  clime, 

Where  fate  my  footsteps  staid. 
In  dreams  I  wander  back  again, 

To  childhood's  joyous  hour, 
To  friends  and  home — the  heart's  sweet  fane, 

Beyond  oppression's  power. 


.EOLIAN   MELODIES. 


171 


How  oft  have  I  loved  in  my  mountain  streams, 

'Neath  the  forest  shades  to  lave  ; 
Where  the  glory  of  boyhood's  elfin  dreams 

Went  floating  on  the  wave  ; 
And  glad  through  the  aisles  of  the  voiceful  woods, 

Resounded  the  hunter's  horn  ; 
Where  swift  o'er  twilight  fell  and  flood, 

The  light  fawn  skip'd  at  morn. 

The  herds  I  see  from  the  dim  blue  hills, 

'  Wend  o'er  the  distant  plain  ; 
The  dark-eyed  maid  her  rude  lay  trills  — 

My  heart  drinks  in  the  strain  ; 
Sweet  haunting  memories  arise, 

And  float  around  my  soul, 
Of  voices  dear  and  radiant  eyes, 

And  home  the  young  heart's  goal. 


A  fearful  change  shrieks  on  the  yelling  blast. 
*  *  *  *  *  * 

'Tis  vain  —  'tis  vain  —  o'er  my  cheek  and  brow. 

Grief's  plague  spot,  like  a  cankering  fire, 
Intensely  burns.     My  sad  soul  now 

Knows  only  one  desire  ; 
A  boon  that  death  alone  can  give- 

One  draught  from  Lethe's  midnight  wav« 
Oh  !  dying  heart,  how  long  canst  thou  thus  live  ! 

Answer  O  Death  !    O  Grave  ! 


1TJ2  MRS.  MONDAY'S  POEMS. 

I  have  spent  my  life  in  these  prison  walls, 

With  a  bursting  heart  and  a  brain  of  fire ; 
And  I've  sadly  wept  for  my  father's  halls, 

Till  it  seemed  that  my  life  would  expire. 
The  dream  is  past,  its  hues  have  fled ; 

The  heart-wish  now  departed : 
For  hope  is  crushed  and  joy  is  dead, 

And  I  am  broken-hearted. 

I  hear  at  last  the  death  trump  call ; 

My  soul  shall  have  its  meed ; 
And  from  my  limbs  the  chains  shall  fall — 

These  prison  walls  recede. 
The  music  of  celestial  wings, 

In  breezy  murmurs  low, 
Unto  my  heart  a  joyance  brings, 

Like  strains  of  long  ago. 

Mine  eyes  wax  dim,  and  faint  mine  ear ; 

Life's  earth-born  sounds  depart ; 
Death's  pulseless  hand,  with  grasp  severe, 

Is  laid  upon  my  heart. 
Yield,  yield — O,  dying  heart  give  o'er ; 

Of  joys  superne  these  raptures  tell — 
0  poor  crushed  heart — forever  more. 

The  spirit  weeps  to  thee,  Farewell. 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

The  wail  hath  ceased,  and  on  the  voiceless  air  mute 
silence  reigns. 


JEOLIAN   MELODIES. 


173 


*  *  *  *  *  * 

List,  list — in  hollow  moans, 
Its  own  wild  requiem  of  solemn  plaints, 
The   grieving  spirit  breathes,  all  fraught  with  sad 

unrest, 
And  inborn  woe. 


J.  9 

Iraught. 
lice  here, 


Euthanasia. 

Oh,  were  it  not  better  far  to  die, 
And  in  the  Lethean  tomb  to  lie  ; 
Than  thus  to  live  and  tortured  be, 
In  burning  chains  of  misery  ? 
There's  nought  in  life  for  me  to  quaff, 
But  pain  and  woe — a  bitter  draugl 
Joy  sends  no  sweetened  chalice 
No  sunshine  on  my  path  to  cheer 
The  wand'rer  o'er  life's  dreary  wild ; 
Nor  gleam  of  hope  with  radiance  mild, 
To  chase  the  glooms  that  o'er  my  way, 
Shuts  out  the  light  of  life  and  day. 
No  tone  from  life's  great  lyre  around, 
Falls  on  mine  ear — a  pleasant  sound ; 
No  soul  akin  or  answering  tone 
Responds  unto  my  spirit's  moan  ; 
No  hue  of  bliss,  except  in  dreams, 
That  sometimes  o'er  my  slumber  gleams, 
As  shines  the  pale  sweet  wand'ring  light 
Of  Cynthia  thro'  the  clouds  of  night — 


174  MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEMS. 

Too  sweet  to  last,  too  bright  to  rest, 

Like  vermil  fading  from  the  West ; 

And  joy  and  hope,  and  glory's  beams, 

Are  but  the  light  of  passing  dreams — 

Shadows  of  some  supernal  clime, 

When  God  shall  close  the  Book  of  Time, 

And  open  on  our  yearning  sight, 

A  volume  of  seraphic  light. 

Then,  at  his  word  the  soul  shall  soar 

Through  bright  infinitudes  of  lore — 

Eternity's  broad  page  explore, 

And  quaff  its  truths  and  thirst  no  more. 

Oh,  could  I  sleep  the  sleep  of  death, 
I'd  gladly jield  my  struggling  breath. 
Could  I  btrc  find  that  dreamless  rest — 
That  long  deep  slumber  of  the  blest : 
For  they  are  blest  who  die  at  last, 
Shut  out  from  life's  dread  battle  blast, 
And  sink  to  that  serene  repose, 
O'er  which  the  sable  wings  shall  close, 
Of  death  and  night,  forever  more. 
Would  I  might  leave  Time's  dreary  shore, 
And  find  oblivion  of  the  soul, 
Where  cold  the  Stygian  surges  roll — 
Death's  solemn  folds  across  my  breast 
I'd  gently  wrap,  and  seek  my  rest. 
Grant  me,  ye  fates,  this  last  behest : 
Let  me  but  sleep,  and  I  am  blest. 


.EOLIAN   MELODIES.  175 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

Away,  like  ocean's  swelling  surges,  died, 
On  distant  hills,  those  sad  Euterpean  strains. 
****** 

And  now,  methinks,  deep  organ-tones  I  hear, 
Borne  on  the  stately  winds,  sad,  solemn,  an«* 
sublime. 

Sorrows  of  Genius. 

Long  years  I  have  toiled  in  the  mines  of  thought, 

With  a  yearning  soul  and  a  brain  o'er-wrought ; 

I  have  shut  myself  out  from  the  haunts  of  men — 

From  Fashion's  mart  and  Deception's  fen  ; 

From  the  festive,  board  and  the  halls  of  mirth — 

The  social  throng,  round  the  cheerful  hearth ; 

From  the  youthful  band,  who  with  twinkling  feet, 

In  the  gay,  glad  measures  of  joyance  meet, 

Where  the  syrens  of  love  in  their  sweet  bow'rs  sing, 

And  over  young  hearts  their  soft  spells  fling. 

Aye,  the  things  of  all  time,  for  this  lonely  cell 

I  have  left,  with  my  thoughts  and  my  soul  to  dwell ; 

Till  with  heart-sick'ning  woe  and  with  sorrow  of  mind 

For  some  kindred  tone,  my  lonesome  soul  pined  ; 

Till  mine  eyes  waxed  dim  and  my  cheeks  grew  pale, 

And  the  heaven-borrowed  hues  of  earth  did  fail ; 

Thro'  blight,  and  thro'  pains,  and  thro'  struggling  tears, 

It  hath  lain  on  my  heart  and  burnt  for  years ; 

This  deep  mountain  thirst  for  God-given  truth, 


176 


MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEMS. 


For  all  science  and  lore ;  till  the  fires  of  youth, 
And  its  vigor  of  thought  are  extinguished  and  dead — 
Till  hope  hath  departed  and  Love's  light  hath  fled ; 
In  multitudes  mixed  my  soul  stands  alone, 
.Now   distanced    from    men,    by   the   mind's  wave 

upborne ; 

In  the  great  harp  of  being  there's  no  answering  tone— 
There's  nothing  in  life  to  love  or  to  mourn. 
I  have  worshiped  wildly  in  Learning's  fane — 
Through  blood  and  through  fire,  through  anguish  and 

pain  ; 

And  thus  I  had  madly  hoped  to  have  caught 
The  undying  hues  of  God-gifted  thought ; 
Some  heart-breathing  tone  from  Apollo's  rapt  lyrt, 
Or  soul-waking  spark  of  Promethean  fire, 
That  should  mount  o'er  the  storms  and  the  ruins  of 

time; 

Like  a  star  on  the  night,  immortal,  sublime. 
But,  where  is  the  wealth  in  the  temple  of  lore, 
The  glittering  thought-gems  the  brain  had  in  store ; 
The  spoils  of  the  mind,  and  the  deep  soul-strain  ? 
Are  they  gone  with  the  dreams  that  return  not  again  ? 
Oh,  what  can  assuage  the  deep  thirst  of  my  soul? 
The  race  is  not  won,  and  unreached  the  goal ; 
For  the  grasp  of  the  mind  stops  not  with  the  stars, 
But  still  soaring  on  till  eternity  bars 
The  soul's  deathless  fount,  and  the  source  of  all  light 
From  the  spirit's  deep  thirst  and  its  yearning  sight. 
Oh,  a  fearful  boon  to  my  soul  was  given ! 


JEOLIAN   MELODIES.  177 

Too  brightly  tinged — too  much  of  heaven, 
Are  my  life's  burning  dreams,  and  too  strong  the  chain 
That  around  my  deep  heart-affection  hath  lain. 
The  web  of  my  being's  too  etherially  wrought — 
Too  heaven-born  the  music  my  soul's  ear  hath  caught:) 
For  the  raptures  of  earth  too  spiritually  given, 
And  too  much  of  earth  for  a  dweller  of  heaven. 
Yet  the  chain  will  burst  and  the  bars  be  riven, 
And  the  quest  of  my  soul  at  last  be  given. 
It  shall  stretch  forth  its  wings  and  soar  at  last 
From  heav'n  to  heav'n  in  those  realms  vast ; 
It  shall  bask  in  the  light  of  eternal  truth, 

And  quench  its  thirst  in  the  fountain  of  youth. 
#  #  #  *  *  * 

Hark !  again  mine  ear  drinks  in  a  tone  profound, 
Like  the  far  roar  of  ocean's  liquid  thunder, 
Or  voices  of  assembled  storms  remote — 
So  strangely,  terribly,  with  life-sounds  blent ; 
Yet  musical  and  clear,  that  it  would  seem 
The  earth-encircling  hymn  of  some  strong  angel's  lyre  ; 
While  on  its  cadences  sublime  methinks  I  hear 
The  stirring  sounds  of  martial  strains  or  battle's  yell : 
As  if  the  viewless  heav'n-sent  wanderer, 
D'er  fall'n  myriads  from  Mars'  red  field, 
£is  cloud-clearing  wings  had  swept. 
'Twould  seem,  O  eagle-winged  winds  of  heaven, 
Ye  were  the  earth-directed  harbingers  of  ill, 
Unto  a  world  guilt-stricken,  from  the  great  god  of 
storms, 


178  MRS.  MUNDAY'S  POEMS. 

Who  full  of  power  rides  in  majestic  wrath, 
On  chariot  clouds,  whose  winged  steeds 
Are  the  embattling  elements,  lightning-reigned, 
And  full  of  speed — whose  word  is  fate  etern, 
And  his  voice  thunders. 

Now  madly  shrieks 
The  spirit-voice  along  the  arching  sky, 
Dying  afar  like  peans  o'er  the  slain. 

***** 


INDEX. 


PAGH. 

Preface,  3 

Memoirs  of  Mrs.  L.  A.  H.  Munday,       -  -      4 

ACACIAN  LYRICS,  7 

Jerusalem,     -             -             -  7 

Three  Friends  and  the  Jewel,  -             -          13 

Stanzas  for  the  Year,            -  -             -     16 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  Austin  J.  Morris,  18 

An  Allegory,  23 

MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES,              -  -             -     30 

Reminiscences,  30 

Lone  Tree  and  Solitary  Grave,  -             -    36 

Song  of  the  Genii,          -  -             -           38 

Oceola's  Lament,     -             -  -             -42 

Musings,  44 

Rosseau's  Heloise,     -  -            -     49 

Autumn  Winds  are  Sighing,  -            -           51 

To  a  Young  Poetess,            -  -            -     53 

The  Shipwreck,  56 

The  Graduate's  Farewell,    -  -            -    58 

The  Moon,  60 

To  an  Absent  One,             -  -            -    62 

To  Leonore,  64 

Music,                       -             -  -             -     67 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  a  Lady,  70 

The  Daguerrean  Gallery,     -  -             -     74 

The  Pen,           -            -  -            -          75 
(181) 


182  INDEX. 

Childhood's  Rambles,  -  -  -  78 

A  Portrait,  83 

Genius,  -  -  -  -  -  84 

The  Wandering  Ship,  -  -  -  91 

The  Maniac,  -  -  -  -  94 

My  Native  Land,  -  -  101 

Musings,  -  -  -  -  -  103 

To  ,  -  -  -  106 

Paganini,  -  -  -  -  -  109 

Epithelamium,  -  -  -  112 

Lyrics,  -  -  -  -  -  113 

SONGS  OF  WAR,  -  121 

The  Departure,  -  121 

The  March,  -  -  -  123 

Rio  Grande,  -  125 

Palo  Alto,  -  -  -  127 

Notes  to  War  Songs,  -  -  -  131 

SONNETS  AND  SONGS,  -  -  -  133 

Song  of  the  Flowers,  -  -  -  133 

Spring,  -  -  134 

To  a  Friend,  -  -  135 

-Stanzas,  -  -  -  -  137 

Isabel,  -  -  -  138 

Written  in  a  Lady's  Album,  -  -  140 

To'a  Portrait,  -  -  -  -  141 

To  — ,  -  -  -  141 

Stanzas,  -  -  -  ^  -  143 

Song,  -  144 
Stanzas,  -----  145 
Fantasies,  -----  146 

To  Amanda  Harte,  -  -  148 

Song,  -  -  -  -  -  149 

To  Mary  Bell,  -  -  -  15  J 

Song,  *  -  -  -  -  152 

A  Dream  of  the  Past,  -  -  152 


INDEX. 


183 


The  Serenade, 
Song,     - 

MELODIES, 
The  Exiles  Lament, 
The  Broken  Hearted, 
The  Dying  Boy, 
The  Mother's  Lament, 
The  Orphans,     - 
The  Bereaved, 
The  Captive  Chief, 
The  Captive  Exile, 
Euthanasia, 
Sorrows  of  Genius, 


154 
155 
157 
159 
160 
163 
164 
166 
168 
169 
170 
173 
175 


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and  scientific  treatises,  is  varied,  all  are  highly  important  and  of  practical 
utility  to  mankind  generally.  These  characteristics  of  Dr.  Dick's  writings, 
while  they  render  them  permanently  valuable,  insure  for  them  also  a  wide 
circulation  among  all  classes  of  readers.— Presbyterian  of  the  West. 


ArPLEGATE   &    CO.  S   PUBLICATIONS. 


Plutarch's  Lives, 


With  Historical  and  Critical  Notes,  and  a  LIFE  OF  PLUTARCH.    Illustrated 
with  a  Portrait.     I  vol.  royal  8vo.,  sheep,  spring  back,  marbled  edges. 

This  edition  has  been  carefully  revised  and  corrected,  and  is  printed  upon 
entirely  new  plates,  stereotyped  by  ourselves,  to  correspond  with  our  library 
edition  of  Dick,  etc. 

"Next  in  importance  to  a  thorough  knowledge  of  history,  and  in  many 
respects  fully  equal  to  it,  is  the  study  of  well  authenticated  biography.  For 
this  valuable  purpose,  wn  know  of  no  work  extant  superior  to  the  fifty  lives 
of  Plutarch.  It  is  a  rare  magazine  of  literary  and  biographical  knowledge. 
The  eminent  men  whose  lives  compose  this  work,  constitute  almost  the  entire 
of  that  galaxy  of  greatness  and  brightness,  which  stretches  across  the  horizon 
of  the  distant  past,  and  casts  upon  the  present  time  a  mild  and  steady  lustre. 
Many  of  them  are  among  the  most  illustrious  of  the  earth." — JfcHJmHi  and 
Louisville  Christian  Advocate. 

"  No  words  of  criticism,  or  of  eulogy,  need  be  spent  on  Plutarch's  Lives. 
Every  body  knows  it  to  be  the  most  popular  book  of  biographies  now  extant 
in  any  known  language.  It  h -.is  been  more  read,  by  the  youth  of  all  nations, 
for  tiie  last  four  or  five  centuries  in  particular,  than  any  ever  written.  It 
has  done  more  good,  in  its  way,  and  has  been  the  means  of  forming  more 
sublime  resolutions,  and  even  more  sublime  characters,  than  any  other  work 
with  which  we  are  acquainted,  except  the  Bible.  It  is  a  better  piece  of  prop 
erty  for  a  young  man  to  own,  than  an- eighty  acre  lot  in  the  Mississippi  Val 
ley,  or  many  hundred  dollars  in  current  money.  We  would  rather  leave  it 
as  a  legacy  to  a  son,  had  we  to  make  the  choice,  than  any  moderate  amount 
of  property,  if  we  were  certain  he  would  read  it.  There  are  probably  but 
few  really  great  men  now  living,  that  have  not  been  largely  indebted  to  it  fur 
their  early  aspirations,  in  consequence  of  which  they  have  achieved  their 
greatness."— Ladies'  Repository. 

"  No  book  has  been  more  generally  sought  after  or  read  with  greater 
avidity." — Indiana  State  Sentinel. 

This  is  a  magnificent  8vo.,  handsomely  and  substantially  gotten  up,  in 
every  respect  highly  creditable  to  the  enterprising  house  of  Applegate  &  Co. 
Who  has  not  read  Plutarch  ?  for  centuries  it  has  occupied  a  commanding  po 
sition  in  the  1'rerature  of  the  age.  It  needs  no  eulogy  ;  the  reading  public 
know  it  to  be  one  of  the  most  interesting,  instructive  and  popular  biographies 
now  extant.— St.  Louis  Republican. 

The  Western  public  are  under  obligations  to  Messrs.  Apple?ate  &  Co.,  of 
Cincinnati,  for  the  handsome  and  substantial  manner  in  which  they  have  re 
cently  got  up  editions  of  several  standard  works.  Dick's  Works  unabridged, 
Rollin's  Ancient  History,  and  now  Plutarch's  Lives,  attest  the  enterprise  and 
good  .judgment  of  this  firm  in  their  publishing  department.  To  speak  of  the 
character  and  merits  of  Plutarch,  which  the  old  and  the  young  of  several 
generations  ;ire familiar  with,  would  be  presumptuous  ;  but  we  i/an  with  pro 
priety  refer  in  t;?rms  of  high  commendation  to  the  manner  in  which  this  e<!i- 
tion  has  been  got  up  in  every  department.  The  size  is  royal  octavo,  just 
right  for  the  library.  The  paper  is  good,  the  typography  excellent,  and  the 
calf  binding  just  as  it  should  be,  neat  and  substantial.  If  this  house  contin 
ues  as  it  has  begun,  it  will  soon  have  an  extended  and  enviable  reputation  for 
the  character  and  style  of  its  editions  of  standard  works,  and  it  will  deser-r  e 
it.— Cincinnati  Daily  Times. 


APPLEGATE   &   CO.'s  PUBLICATIONS. 


Eollin's  Ancient  History, 


The  Ancient  History  of  the  Carthagenians,  Assyrians,  Babylonians,  Medes, 

and  Persians,  Grecians  and  Macedonians,  including  a  History  of  the  Arts 

and  Sciences  of  the  Ancients,  with  a  Life  of  the  Author.  2  vols. royal  8vo., 

sheep,  spring  back,  marbled  edge. 

One  of  the  most  complete  and  impartial  works  ever  published.  It  takes 
us  back  to  early  daysv  and  makes  us  live  and  think  with  the  men  of  by-gone 
centuries.  It  spreads  out  to  us  in  a  pleasant  and  interesting  style,  not  only 
the  events  which  characterize  the  early  ages,  but  the  inner  world  of  thought 
and  feeling,  as  it  swayed  the  leading  minds  of  the  times.  No  library  is  com 
plete  without  Rollin's  Ancient  History. 

"  A  new  edition  of  Rollin's  Ancient  History  has  just  been  issued  by  Ap- 
plegate  &  Co.  The  value  and  importance  of  this  work  are  universally  ac 
knowledged.  Every  private  library  is  deficient  without  it;  and  it  is  now 
furnished  at  so  cheap  a  rate,  that  every  family  should  have  it.  ItshouM  be 
placed  in  the  hands  of  all  our  youth,  as  infinitely  more  instructive  and  use 
ful  than  the  thousand  and  one  iraShy  publications  with  which  the  country  is 
deluged,  and  which  are  so  apt  to  vitiate  the  taste  and  ruin  the  minds  of  young 
readers.  One  more  word  in  behalf  of  this  new  edition  of  Rollin  :  It  may  not 
be  generally  known,  that  in  previous  English  editions  a  l;irge  and  interesting 
portion  of  the  work  has  been  suppressed.  The  deficiencies  are  here  supplied 
and  restored  from  the  French  editions,  giving  the  copy  of  Messrs.  Applegate 
&.  Co.  a  superiority  over  previous  English  editions." —  Western,  Recorder. 

"  This  vrork  in  this  form  has  been  for  some  years  before  the  public,  and  is 
the  best  and  most  complete  edition  published.  The  work  is  comprised  in  t«ro 
volumes  of  about  six  hundred  pages  each,  containing  the  prefaces  of  Kollin 
and  the  '  History  of  the  Arts  and  Sciences  of  the  Ancients,'  which  have  been 
omitted  in  most  American  editions." — Springfield  Republic. 

'•  The  work  is  too  well  known,  and  has  too  long  been  a  favorite  to  require 
any  comniendationfrom  us.  Though  in  some  matters  more  recent  investi 
gations  have  led  to  conclusions  different  from  those  of  the  author,  yet  his 
general  accuracy  is  unquestionable." — Western  Christian  Advocate. 

"  This  work  is  so  well  known  as  stand  ird — as  necessary  to  the  completion 
of  every  gentleman's  library — that  any  extended  notice  of  it  would  be  folly 
on  our  part.  We  have  named  it  for  the  purpose  of  calling  the  attention  of 
our  readers  to  the  beautiful  edition  issued  by  the  enterprising  house  of  Mess. 
Applegate  &  Co  " — Methodist  Protestant,  Baltimore. 

The  public  are  under  obligations  to  Applegate  &  Co.  for  their  splendid 
edition  of  this  standard  History.—  Times. 

Works  like  this,  that  form  a  connecting  link  between  the  splendid  civiliza 
tion  of  the  ancients,  and  the  more  enduring  progress  of  the  moderns,  are  a 
boon  to  the  lover  of  literature  and  the  student  of  History. — Railroad  Record 

Time  is  fleeting — Umpires  perish  and  monuments  moulder.  But  a  book 
like  this  survives  the  wreck  of  time  and  the  ravages  of  decay. —  Globe. 

The  history  of  departed  kingdoms,  with  the  causes  of  their  sad  decline  and 
fall,  serve  as  light-houses  along  the  sea  of  life,  to  warn  succeeding  generations 
of  their  fate,  and  to  teach  them  to  avoid  the  rocks  and  quicksands  of  error  and 
guilt  on  which  they  were  wrecked.  In  no  history  is  this  purpose  so  well  ac 
complished  as  in  that  of  Roliin.  a  handsome  edition  of  which  has  just  been 
issued  by  Applegale  &  Co. — jtfews. 


APPLEGATE   &    CO.  S   PUBLICATIONS. 


By  ADDISON,  STEELE,  ETC.,  1  vol.  royal  8vo.,  750  pages,  with  portrait  of 
Addison.    Sheep,  spring  back,  marble  edge. 

The  numerous  calls  fora  COMPLETE  and  cheap  edition  of  this  valuable 
work,  have  induced  us  to  neuly  stereotype  it,  in  this  form,  corresponding  in 
style  and  price  with  our  other  books.  Its  thorough  revisions  have  been  com 
mitted  to  competent  hands,  and  will  be  found  complete. 

There  is  no  work  in  the  English  language  that  has  been  more  generally 
read,  approved,  and  appreciated  than  THE  SPECTATOR.  It  is  a  work  that 
can  be  perused  by  persons  of  all  classes  and  conditions  of  society  with  equal 
pleasure  and  profit. 

"  One  hundred  and  forty  years  ago,  when  there  were  no  daily  newspapers 
nor  periodicals,  nor  cheap  fictions  for  the  people,  the  Spectator  had  a  daily 
circulation  in  England.  It  was  witty,  pithy,  tasteful,  and  at  times  vigorous, 
and  lashed  the  vices  and  follies  of  the  age,  and  inculcated  many  useful  les 
sons  which  would  have  been  disregarded  from  more  serious  sources.  It  was 
widely  popular." — Central  Christian  Herald. 

"  APPLLOATK  &  Co.,  43  Main  street,  have  just  published,  in  a  handsome 
octavo  volume  nf  7oU  pages,  one  of  the  very  best  classics  in  our  language. 
It  w  mid  be  superfluous  at  this  day  to  write  a  line  in  commendation  of  this 
work." — Cin.  Com. 

"  There  are  few  works,  if  any,  in  the  English  language  that  have  been 
more  highly  appreciated  and  generally  read  than  the  Spectator.  It  is  in  gen 
eral  circulation,  and  continues  a  popular  work  for  general  reading.  The 
chaste  style  of  its  composition,  and  purity  of  its  diction,  has  placed  it  high 
in  rank  among  the  English  classics." — St.  Louis  Republican. 

"  It  is  a  source  of  general  satisfaction  to  hear  of  the  republication  of  a 
work  of  such  standard  merit  as  the  Spectator.  In  these  days,  when  the  press 
teems  with  the  issue  of  ephemeral  publications,  to  subserve  the  purpose  of 
an  hour,  to  enlist  momentary  attention,  and  leave  no  improvement  on  the 
mind,  or  impression  on  the  heart — it  is  a  cause  of  congratulation  to  see,  now 
and  then,  coming  from  the  press  such  works  as  this  ;  to  last  as  it  should,  so 
long  as  a  pure  taste  is  cultivated  or  esteemed." — Cincinnati  Gazette. 

"  Criticism  upon  the  literary  merits  of  the  Spectator  would  be  rather  late 
and  superfluous  at  the  present  lime.  Steele,  Addison  and  Swift  are  above 
criticism.  This  edition  is  gotten  up  in  style  and  form  that  will  make  it  pecu- 


an    eegan,     e  paper  goo,  an 
brary.'" — Cincinnati  Daily  Times. 

"  Amid  the  rush  and  whirl  of  this  locomotive  and  high  pressure  aze— amid 
the  almost  breathless  rage  for  the  light  and  flimsy  effusions  with  which  the 
laboring  press  is  inundating  the  world,  ADDISON,  the  immortal  ADDISON, — 
one  of  the  most  beautiful,  chaste,  elegant,  and  instructive,  as  well  aspleising 
writers  of  the  English  language,  may  be  pushed  aside  or  overlooked  for  a 
time,  but  the  healthful  mind,  satiated  with  the  frothy  productions  of  the 
times,  will  again  return  to  such  authors  as  Addison,  and  enjoy  with  renewed 
zest  the  pleasing  converse  of  such  pure  and  noble  spirits." — Metkodikt 
Monthly. 


APPLEGATE   &   CO.  S   PUBLICATIONS. 


The  Tattler  and  Guardian, 


By  ADDISON.  STKELE,  ETC.,  with  an  account  of  the  authors,  by  Thos.  Bab- 
bington  Macnulay.  Illustrated  with  steel  plate  engravings.  Complete  In 
one  volume,  with  notes  and  general  indexes. 

TATTLER  AND  GUARDIAN. — Addison  and  Sttele  never  wrote  anything  that 
was  not  good  ;  but  superlatively  so  is  the  Tattler  and  Guardian.  In  con 
junction  with  the  Spectator,  (and  neither  of  them  is  complete  without  the 
other)  it  affords  a  full  view  of  English,  as  well  as  Continental  Society,  one 
hundred  .and  fifty  years  ago,  and  in  a  quaint  and  classic  style  vividly  portrays 
the  follies  and  vices  of  the  age.  With  pleasant  humor,  keen  wit,  and  bitter 
sarcasm,  it  overflows,  and  is  entirely  free  from  the  nonsense  and  common 
place  twaddle  and  toadyism  of  much  of  the  popular  writings  of  the  present 
day.  It  would  be  superfluous  for  us  to  say  that  the  style  in  which  it  is  writ 
ten  is  chaste, classic  and  unique.  No  Library  of  Belles-Lettres  is  complete 
without  it,  and  no  scholar  can  appreciate  the  beauties  of  the  English  lan 
guage  until  he  has  thoroughly  studied  the  diction  of  Addison  and  Steele. 

The  splendid  series  of  articles  contained  in  these  journals,  having  such 
authors  as  Addison,  Steele  and  thejr  associates,  living  through  a  century  and 
a  h  ilf,  and  still  retaining  all  their  freshness,  can  not  but  make  them  in  their 
present  shape  sought  after  in  every  enlightened  community.—  Cincinnati 
Daily  Times. 

THI  TATTLER  AND  GCARDIAN,  whose  capital  Essays  by  Addison,  Steele, 
Tickell  and  others.  Ion?  since  placed  the  volume  in  the  foremost  rank  among 
the  English  classics-— Cincinnati  Press. 

They  were  and  are  yet  models  of  composition,  almost  indispensable  to  a 
thorough  knowledge  of  Belles-Lettres. — Cincinnati  Enquirer. 

The  writings  of  Addison,  Steele  and  their  associates  have  rarely  been  is- 
sue'l  in  a  form  so  well  adapted  for  thegeneral  circulation  which  they  deserve. 
— Cincinnati  Gazette. 

As  a  collection  of  rich  essays,  in  beautiful  English,  The  TATTLER  needs  no 
commendation  from  our  pen. — Ohio  State  Journal. 

The  publishers  have  done  the  public  a  good  service  by  placing  this  foun 
tain  of  pure  thought  and  pure  English  in  a  convenient  form. —  Wtstern 
Christian  Advocate. 

No  library  is  complete  unless  the  TATTLER  and  GUARDIAN  is  on  its  shelves, 
and  everj-  man  of  literary  tastes  regards  its  possession  as  a  necessity. — Ma- 
tonic  Review. 

TATTLER  AND  GrARDiAK. — Who  has  not  heard  of  Addison  and  Steele,  and 
where  is  the  scholar  or  lover  of  English  Literature  who  has  not  read  the 
Spectator  ?  It  is  a  part  of  English  literature  that  we  could  not  afford  to  lose. 
The  writings  of  such  men  as  Addison  and  Stflle  are  good  in  any  age.  The 
book  now  before  us  is  by  the  same  authors. — Ledger. 

Among  all  the  flippant  publications  of  the  present  day,  in  which  there  is 
an  awful  waste  of  paper  and  ink,  it  is  refreshing  to  see  a  reprint  of  a  work  of 
standard  merit  such  as  the  Tattler  and  Guardian.  The  criticisms  of  over  a 
century  have  only  more  clearly  pointed  out  its  merits  and  established  its 
reputation. — Democrat. 


APPLEGATE   &   CO.'s   PUBLICATIONS. 

losheim's  Ecclesiastical  History; 

Ancient  and  Modern,  from  the  Birth  of  Christ  to  the  beginning  of  the  Eigh 
teenth  Century,  in  which  the  rise,  progress  and  variations  of  Church  Power 
are  considered  in  their  connection  with  the  Stat>  of  learning  and  philoso 
phy,  and  the  political  history  of  Europe  during  that  period.  Continued  to 
the  year  1826.  by  Charles  Coote,  LL.  D.,  800  pages,  quarto,  sheep,  spring 
back,  marbled  edge. 

This  edition  forms  the  most  splendid  volume  of  Church  History  ever  issued 
from  the  American  Press  ;  is  printed  with  large  type,  on  elegant  paper,  and 
a-ltogether  forms  the  most  accessible  and  imposing  history  of  the  Church  that 
is  before  the  public. —  Gosptl  Herald. 

This  great  standard  history  of  the  Church  from  the  birth  of  Christ,  has  just 
been  issued  in  a  new  dress  by  the  extensive  publishing  house  of  Applegate 
&  Co.  Nothing  need  be  said  by  us  in  relation  to  the  merits  or  reliability  of 
Moiheim's  History  ;  it  has  long  borne  tlie  approving  seal  of  the  Protestant 
world. — Masonic  Eeview. 

To  the  Christian  world,  next  to  the  golden  Bible  itself,  in  value,  is  an  accu 
rate,  faith/ul,  and  lif?-like  delineation  of  the  rise  and  progress,  the  develop 
ment  and  decline  of  the  Christian  Church  in  all  its  varieties  of  sects  and  de 
nominations,  their  tenets,  doctrines,  manners,  customs  and  government. 
Such  a  work  is  Mosheim's  Ecclesiastical  History.  Like  "  Rollin's  History 
of  the  Ancients.'"  it  is  the  standard,  and  is  too  well  known  to  need  a  word  of 
comment. — Advocate. 

But  little  need  be  said  of  the  history  as  a  standard  work.  It  has  stood  first 
on  the  list  of  Church  histories,  from  the  day  it  became  known  to  scholars, 
down  to  the  present  time  ;  and  there  is  but  little  probability  that  any  new  one 
will  soon  set  it  aside. — Beauty  of  Holiness. 

^o  Church  History,  particularly  as  it  respects  the  external  part  of  it,  was 
ever  written,  which  was  more  full  and  reliable  than  this  ;  and  indeed,  in  all 
respects,  we  opine,  it  will  be  a  long  time  before  it  will  be  superseded. — Lite 
rary  Casket. 

Who  has  not  felt  a  desire  to  know  something  more  of  the  early  history,  rise 
and  progress  of  the  Christian  Church  than  can  usually  be  found  in  the  po 
litical  histories  of  the  world  V  Mosheim's  Church  History,  just  published  by 
our  Western  Publishing  House  of  Applegate  &.  Co.,  contains  just  the  infor 
mation  which  every  believer  in  Christianity  so  much  needs.  It  fills  the  space 
hitherto  void  in  Christian  Literature,  and  furnishes  a  most  valuable  book  for 
the  student  of  Christianity.  Every  clergyman  and  teacher,  every  Sunday 
School  and  household,  should  have  a  copy  of  Mosheim's  Church  History. — 
Herald. 

The  work  is  printed  on  beautiful  whitepaper,  clear  large  type,  and  is  bound 
in  one  handsome  volume.  No  man  ever  sat  down  to  read  Mosheim  in  so 
pleasing  a  dress.  What  a  treat  is  such  an  edition  to  one  who  has  been  study 
ing  the  elegant  work  in  the  small,  close  print  of  other  editions.  Any  one  woh 
has  not  an  ecclesiastical  histoi^should  secure  a  copy  of  this  edition.  It  is 
not  necessary  for  us  to  say  anything  in  relation  to  the  merits  of  Mosheim's 
Church  History.  For  judgment,  taste,  candor,  moderation,  simplicity,  lenrn- 
ing,  accuracy,  order,  and  comprehensiveness,  it  is  unequaled.  The  author 
spared  no  pains  to  examine  the  original  authors  and  "genuine  sources  of 
sacred  history,"  and  to  scrutinize  all  the  facts  presented  by  the  light  of  the 
"  pure  lamps  of  antiquity." — Telescope,  Dayton,  0. 


APPLEGATE   &   CO.  S  PUBLICATIONS. 


Lorenzo  Dow's  Complete  Works, 

The  Dealings  of  God,  Man  and  the  Devil,  as  exemplified  in  the  Life,  Expe 
rience  and  Travels  of  LORENZO  Dow,  in  a  period  of  over  half  a  century, 
together  with  his  Polemic  and  Miscellaneous  Writings  complete.  To  which 
is  added,  TIIE  VICISSITUDES  OF  LIFE,  by  PKGGY  Dow.  with  an  In 
troductory  Kssay,  by  John  Dowling,  D.  D.,  of  New  York,  MAKING  THE 
BEST  AND  MOST  COMPLETK  EDITION  PUBLISHED,  i  vol.  8vo., 
library  binding,  spring  back,  marbled  edge. 

NOTICES  or  THE    PRESS. 

Several  editions  of  the  Life  and  Works  of  Lorenzo  Dow  have  been  issued 
by  different  publishers,  but  the  most  complete  and  accurate  is  the  one  pub 
lished  by  Applegale  &  Co.,  Cincinnati.  After  perusing  it  and  reflecting  on 
the  good  he  accomplished  not  mentioned  in  this  volume,  we  came  to  the 
conclusion  that,  if  for  the  last  hundred  years,  every  minister  had  been  a 
Lorenzo  Dow,  the  whole  world  would  have  been  civilized,  if  not  christian 
ized,  some  time  since. 

"  No  wonder  that  he  was  finally  crucified  at  Georgetown,  D.  C  ,  if  it  is 
true,  as  reported  in  some  quarters,  he  was  poisoned  by  some  enemies  who 
followed  him  to  his  retreat." 

"  Lorenzo  Dow  was  not '  OWE,'  but '  THREC  '  of  them,  a  St.  Paul  in  bless 
ing  souls— a  Washington  in  seeking  the  best  interests  of  his  (.ountry,  and  a 
Howard  in  getting  people  •  out  of  the  prison  '  of  conservatism  and  oppres 
sion." 

".We  decide  (ex  cathedra)  that  one  of  the  most  interesting  works  ever 
placed  on  our  t-ible  is  'The  Complete  Works  of  Lorenzo  Do.v,'  embracing 
his  travels  in  Europe  and  America,  his  polemic  and  poetical  writings  and 
4  Journey  of  Life,'  by  his  wife  Peggy,  who  heroically  accompanied  him  in 
many  of  his  peregrinations." 

"  Full  as  an  egg  is  of  meat,  so  was  Lorenzo  Dow  of  sparkling  wit  and 
genuine  good  humor.  He  overflowed  with  anecdote  like  a  bubbling  fountain 
in  a  sandy  basin,  and  was  never  at  a  loss  for  a  good  and  lively  story  where 
with  to  illustrate  his  subject  and  engage  the  attention  of  his  hearers.  His 
audience  ever  listened  with  breathless  attention,  and  drank  in  his  sayings 
with  wondrous  admiration  and  reverence.  By  some  he  was  regarded  ae  one 
of  those  special  messengers  the  Almighty  sent  in  times  of  great  dearth  of 
godliness  and  piety,  to  wake  up  the  slumbering  church.  He  evidently  had 
his  mission,  and  thousands  now  living  throughout  the  land  can  testify  as  to 
how  he  filled  it. 

"  His  life  was  one  continuous  scene  of  adventure  and  anecdote,  ever  vary 
ing,  and  full  of  the  life-giving  power  of  enthusiasm.  Spotless  in  purity, 
faultless  in  heart,  and  wholly  devoted  to  the  cause  he  had  espoused — the 
cause  of  Christ. " 

•'  This  is  the  best  octavo  edition  of  Dow's  complete  works  new  published. 
The  writings  of  this  remarkable  and  eccentric  man  have  been  before  the  pub 
lic  for  years.  They  have  been  read  by  thousand:).  If  not  altogether  unex 
ceptionable,  they  embrace  many  wholesom^rutrre.  Vice  in  all  its  forms  is 
rebuked  with  characteristic  severity  :  his  bitter  sarcasm  and  cutting  wit  are 
employed  in  many  instances  to  good  effect.  His  wife  seems  to  have  been  a 
kindred  spirit,  and  !>otn,  with  all  their  peculiar  eccentricities,  no  doubt  were 
truly  devoted  Christians,  doing  what  they  sincerely  believed  to  be  for  the 
spiritual  good  of  their  fellow-beings,  and  the  glory  of  God.  Those  who  have 
not  read  this  book  will  finJ  sufficient  to  instruct  and  interest  them." 


-- 


APPLEGATE   &   CO.  S   PUBLICATIONS. 


Farmer's  Hand  Book; 


Being  a  full  and  complete  Guide  for  the  Farmer  and  Emigrant,  comprising 
the  clearing  of  Forest  and  Prairie  land,  Gardening  and  Farming  generally. 
Farriery,  and  the  prevention  and  cure  of  diseases,  with  copious  Hints,  Ke- 
ceiptsand  Tables.  12ino.,  cloth. 

The  publishers  are  gratified  that  they  are  enabled  t)  satisfy  the  universal 
demand  for  a  volume  which  comprises  a  mass  of  superior  material,  derived 
from  the  most  authentic  sources  and  protracted  research. 

The  contents  of  the  "  Farmer's  Hand  Book  "  comprise  about  fifteen  hun 
dred  points  of  information  respecting  the  management  of  a  Farm,  from  the 
first  purchase  and  clearing  of  the  land,  to  all  its  extensive  details  and  de 
partments.  The  necessary  conveniences,  the  household  economy,  the  care 
of  animals,  the  preservation  of  domestic  health,  the  cultivation  of  fruits,  with 
the  science  and  taste  of  the  arborist,  and  the  production  of  the  most  advan 
tageous  articles  for  sale.,  are  all  displayed  in  a  plain,  instructive  and  mog- 
satisfactory  manner,  adapted  peculiarly  to  the  classes  of  citizens  for  whose 
use  and  benefit  the  work  is  specially  designed.  Besides  a  general  outline  of 
the  Constitution,  with  the  Naturalization  and  Preemption  Laws  of  the  United 
States,  there  is  appended  a  Miscellany  of  120  pages,  including  a  rich  variety 
of  advice,  hints  and  rules,  the  study  and  knowledge  of  which  will  unspeak 
ably  promote  both  the  comfort  and  welfare  of  all  who  adopt  and  practice 
them. 

The  Farmer's  Hand  Book  is  a  handsomely  bound  work  of  478  pages.  It 
treats  of  farming  in  all  its  various  departments,  buildings,  fences,  house 
hold  and  culinary  arrangements,  diseases  of  Horses,  Cattle,  Sheep,  Swine, 
•etc.,  etc.-  and  gives  the  remedies  suited  to  each  It  has  a  valuable  treatise  on 
the  use  of  medicine,  with  hints  for  the  preservation  of  health  and  the  treat 
ment  of  wounds,  accidents,  etc.,  and  also  contains  a  vast  amount  of  valuable 
receipts,  tab'es  and  facts,  to  aid  the  male  and  female  in  this  important  busi 
ness  of  life.  No  farmer  can  fail  to  be  benefited  by  reading  this  work. —  Valley 
Agriculturist. 

Though  this  book  has  been  before  the  public  a  few  years,  it  will  prove  a 
useful,  instructive  treatise  on  a  great  variety  of  interesting  subjects  to  the 
farmer  and  emigrant  to  a  new  country.  Its  hints  upon  farming  interests 
must  be  valuable  to  the  agriculturist.  Agriculture  is  now  to  a  very  great 
extent  reduced  to  a  science,  and  all  the  reliable  information  touching  that 
branch  of  industry  is  appreciated  by  a  large  portion  of  the  farming  popula 
tion.  This  work  will  be  of  great  service  to  them. — O^Fatton  Polytechnic 
Institute. 

"  The  Farmer's  Hand-Book  is  a  collection  of  facts,  hints-  receipts,  and 
really  valuable  information,  which  should  be  in  the  hands  of  every  farmer  in 
the  land.  We  find  in  it  directions  for  purchasing  and  clearing  timber  land, 
prairie  farming,  hints  on  the  general  management  of  a  farm,  for  the  con 
struction  of  buildings  and  fences,  a  treatise  on  the  dairy,  also  a  household 
department,  cojjvprising  all  kinds  of  cookery." — Clarksville  Jeffersonian, 


APPLEGATE   &   CO.  S  PUBLICATIONS. 

Gnizot's  Gibbon's  History  of  the  Decline  and 
Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire; 

A  new  edition,  revised  and  corrected  throughout,  preceded  by  a  preface,  and 
accompanied  by  notes,  critical  and  historical,  relating  principally  to  the 
propagation  of  Christianity.  By  M.  F.  GCIZOT,  Minister  of  Public  Instruc 
tion  for  the  kingdom  of  France.  The  Preface,  Notes  and  Corrections  trans 
lated  from  the  French  expressly  for  this  edition — with  a  notice  of  the  life 
and  character  of  Gibbon,  and  Watson's  reply  to  Gibbon.  In  2  vols.  impe 
rial  Evo.,  sheep,  spring  back,  marble  edge. 

We  are  pleased  to  see  a  republication  of  Guizot's  Gibbon,  with  the  notes, 
which  have  never  before  been  republished  in  English.  Gibbon,  so  far  as  we 
know,  stands  alone  in  filling  up  the  histories]  space  between  the  Roman  Cae 
sars  and  the  revival  of  literature. —  Cincinnati  Chronicle. 

While  there  are  numbers  of  Historians  of  the  early  days  of  the  great  Em 
pire,  Gibbon  stands  almost  alone  as  the  historian  of  its  fall.  The  present 
edition,  with  the  notes  of  Guizot,  is  a  treasure  of  literature  that  will  be  highly 
prized. 

The  vices  of  the  Roman  Empire,  that  like  the  vipers  in  the  bosom  of  Cle 
opatra,  caused  her  destruction,  are  traced  from  their  first  inception,  and  should 
act  as  beacon-lights  on  the  shores  of  time,  to  guide  oiiier  nations  that  are 
following  in  her  footsteps. 

Altisonant  Letters. 

Letters  from  Squire  Pedant  in  the  East,  to  Lorenzo  Altisonant,  an  emigrant 
to  the  West,  for  the  Benefit  of  the  Inquisitive  Young.  1  vol.  12mo.,  cloth. 

The  publishers  of  the  following  letters  do  not  present  them  as  models  of 
style,  but  as  a  pleasant  means  of  obtaining  the  meaning  of  the  greater  part  of 
the  unusual  words  of  the  English  language,  on  the  principle  of  "association 
of  ideas."  In  the  column  of  a  dictionary  there  is  no  connection  between  the 
definition  of  words,  consequently,  the  committed  definitions  are  soon  lost  to 
the  pupil.  By  placing  in  such  a  juxtaposition  as  to  form  some  kind  of  sense> 
the  learner  will  the  more  readily  retain  the  meaning  of  the  word"  used 
To  THE  YOUNGSTERS.  BY  THE  AUTHOR. 

YOCNO  FRIENDS: — Some  one  has  said  "that  words  not  understood  are  like 
nncracked  nuts — the  luscionsness  of  the  kernel  is  not  enjoyed."  Believing 
this  to  be  so,  and  thinking  that  there  are  now  many  uncrncked  nuts  in  the 
English  language,  the  author  went  up  into  old  John  Walker's  garret,  an4 
gathered  '-lots"  of  old  and  hard  nuts,  and  brought  them  down  for  you,  and 
then  he  went  into  old  Noah's  ark — he  means  old  Noah  Webster's  dictionary 
—  and  gathered  many  more,  and  by  the  assistance  of  Mr.  Altisonant,  placed 
them  in  the  "letter  basket,"  with  the  hammer,  the  dictionary,  laid  side  by 
Bide.  Will  you  take  up  the  hammer  and  crack  the  nuts,  and  enjoy  the  ker 
nel  ?  Try  it.  Your  friend,  8.  K.  HOSIIOUR. 

A  rare  book  this,  and  rare  amusement  it  will  afford  to  the  reader. — Daily 
Times. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

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